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PLAYS 


BY 

MRS.  W.   K.  CLIFFORD 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  LIKENESS  OF  THE  NIGHT 

(Four  Acts) 
A  LONG  DUEL  (Comedy,  Four  Acts) 

THE  SEARCHLIGHT  (One  Act) 

BADELEINE  (One  Act) 


PLAYS : 


HAMILTON'S  SECOND  MARRIAGE 
THOMAS  AND  THE  PRINCESS 
THE  MODERN  WAY 

BY 

MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 


NEW   YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

MCMX 


^  ^  Copyright,  1910 

By    Mitchell    Kennerley 

AUTHOR'S    NOTE. 

Of  these  three  plays,  only  the  first  has  been  pro- 
duced. 

"  The  Modern  Way "  takes  its  title  from  a  volume 
by  the  same  author  published  two  years  ago,  and  is 
adapted  from  a  story  contained  therein. 

Any  inquiries  regarding  the  dramatic  rights  of 
"Hamilton's  Second  Marriage"  should  be  addressed 
to  Miss  Alice  Kauser,  1403  Broadway,  New  York,  and 
for  the  other  two  plays  to  Miss  Elisabeth  Marbury, 
1430  Broadway. 

These  plays  are  copyrighted  in  the  United  States  of 
America,  and  all  rights  are  reserved. 

7  Chilwobth   Street, 

Hyde  Park,  London,  W. 
January,  1910. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Hamilton's     Second    Marriage     ...  5 

Thomas    and    the    Princess     ....      101 
The  Modern  Way 221 


395483 


HAMILTON'S  SECOND  MARRIAGE 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


PRODUCED  AT  THE  COURT  THEATRE, 
LONDON,  OCTOBER,   1907,  BY 

MR.  OTHO  STUART, 


Mr.  Dawson  Milward,  Mr.  E.  M.  Garden,  Mr.  Graham 

Browne,  Miss    Frances  Dillon,   and    Miss  Alexandra 

Carlisle  in  the  Chief  Parts 


DRAMATIS    PERSONiE 

Sir  Henry  Callender 

Maurice  Hamilton,  ex-Civil  servant 

Colonel   Dempster,  his  friend 

Guy  Armitage 

Judson,  butler  to  Sir  H,  Callertder 

Becker,  Hamilton*s  servant 

Lady  Callender 

Sylvia,  daughter  to  Sir  H.  and  Lady  Callender 

Madame  Bunsen,  a  riding  mistress 


Act.  I.    Lady  Callender's  drawing-room  on  Cam- 
den Hill.     Early   afternoon. 

Act  II.    The  same.     Four  days  later. 

Act  III.    Sylvia's   sitting-room.      Ten  days   later. 

Act  IV.    A   year  later,  Maurice  Hamilton's  study 
in  Kensington  Square. 

TIME:  Present, 


ACT    I 

Scene. — Lady  Callender's  drawing-room  on 
Camden  Hill.  French  windows  opening  on 
to  garden  and  lawn  seen  beyond.  Fireplace 
Uj  door  L.  Grand  piano  {open)  c.  Flowers 
about,  &c.  Pleasant,  home-like  room  of  well- 
off  people. 
Time. — Early  afternoon. 

[When  the  curtain  rises  Sir  Henry  Cal- 
LENDER   is   standing   by   the   bell,   which 
he  rings  rather  impetuously.     He  is  eld- 
erly, lively  and  mannered. 
Enter    Servant    (Judson),    with    note    on    tray, 
held  down  by  his  side. 
Sir   H.     Where  is  Lady  Callender? 
JuDSON.      Her    Ladyship    is    lying    down^    Sir 
Henry. 

Sir  H.     Oh!    [He  always  says  ''Oh!"  in  the 
same  short  tone.'\    And  Miss  Sylvia? 
JuDsoN.    Miss  Sylvia  is  out. 

Sir  H.     Oh!     What's  that 

[Looking  down  at  tray. 
JuDsoN.     [Handing     note.]        Mr.     Hamilton's 
servant  brought  it  this  morning — ^just   after  you 
had  gone,  and  was  to  wait  for  an  answer. 

[Sir  Henry  reads  it  with  some  excitement. 


6         HAMILTON'S    SECOND     MARRIAGE 

Sir  H.  Oh!  [To  Judson,  who  is  about  to  go.] 
Judson — wait.  [Reads  note  again.]  I — I  want 
a  telegram  to  go  immediately.  [Sits  down  at  writ- 
ing-table,   R.]      No — stop — I    won't    send    it — I'll 

telephone [Ea;it  Judson.]      [Looking  at  note 

again.']     Of  course.  [Exit. 

[Stage  empty  for  a  minute. 

[Re-enter  Judson,  showing  in  Guy   Armitage — 

young,  boyish  in  manner,  good-looking. 

Judson.     Miss  Sylvia  is  out,  sir,  but  I'll  see  if 

her  Ladyship  is  about  yet. 

Guy.  Don't  disturb  her  if  she's  lying  down — 
I  mean — ^^er — taking  her  little  siesta — or  going 
out. 

Judson.     No  sir.  [Exit. 

[Guy   alone   makes    business — looks   round 

room — whistles  the  tune  of  the  song  he 

afterwards    plays,    drifts    to   piano,   and 

plays  and  sings  softly  to  himself, 

[Sings]    "  Did  you  ever  see  the  devil 

With  his  wooden  pail  and  shovel, 
Digging  taters  by  the  bushel 
With  his  tail  cocked  up 
tail  cocked  up 
Did  you  ever  see  the  devil 

With  his  wooden  pail " 

Enter  Lady  Callender  (46),  handsome,  rather 
austere-looking,  but  sweet-mannered — a  little 
firm  in  manner,  as  of  a  woman  whose  preju- 


HAMILTON'S     SECOND     MARRIAGE         7 

dices,  in  spite  of  her  sweetness,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  conquer. 

Lady  C.  My  dear  Guy — that  tune  again! 
Don't  you  know  any  other? 

Guy.  Nothing  so  beautiful,  Aunt  Peggy.  But 
I  hope  I   haven't  disturbed  you.^* 

Lady  C.  No,  dear;  I  had  finished  my  little 
siesta. 

Guy.  [With  a  little,  merry,  backward  shake  of 
his  leg  at  Lady  C.'s  last  word.]  1  came  to  see 
if  Sylvia  would  stroll  round  to  the  riding  school, 
and  have  a  look  at  Clara — she's  getting  on  splen- 
didly. 

Lady  C.  Sylvia  is  at  her  Debating  Society. 
[Sits. 

Guy.  Debating  Society!  Lord! — all  girls  un- 
der twenty-five,   aren't  they? 

Lady  C.     Yes;  I  think  so. 

Guy.     What  on  earth  do  they  debate  about? 

Lady  C.  Well,  last  time  it  was  Women's  Suf- 
frage and 

Guy.     [Quickly.]     Which  side  did  she  take? 

Lady  C.   Against  it — of  course. 

Guy.  [Relieved.]  That's  all  right.  What's  it 
about   to-day? 

Lady  C.  She  didn't  tell  me — sit  down, 
dear. 

Guy.     Does  she  do  much  talking? 

[Sits  down  at  piano  again,  facing  Lady  C. 


8    HAMILTON'S  SECOND  MARRIAGE 

Lady  C.  I  don't  know,  of  course;  but  she  has 
keen   views    on   most   subjects — for    a    girl. 

Guy.  [With  a  little  sigh.]  She  never  airs 
them  to  me. 

Lady  C.  Perhaps  she's  afraid  you  would  laugh 
at  her.  I  think  it  takes  an  older  companion — if 
it's  a  man — to  bring  her  out. 

Guy.  Ah!  the  immaculate  Hamilton,  for  in- 
stance. 

Lady  C.  He  said,  the  other  day,  that  he  en- 
joyed a  talk  with  her  immensely. 

Guy.  l^Good-humouredly.^  Indeed  i^  Very 
kind  of  him.  Well — well — shall  I  sing  you  a 
verse,  Aunt  Peggy? 

[Begins  to  sing  and  play  mournfully. 
*'  Did  you  ever  see  the  devil 
With  his  wooden  pail  and  shovel." 
[Stopping   abruptly.]      There's   nothing   like   the 
devil  for  a  beggar  who's  in  love. 

Lady  C.   [Amused.]     Are  you  in  love? 

Guy.  Oh,  no;  not  at  all,  thank  you — I  thought 
I  was,  but  I  find  I'm  not — for  the  present. 
[Plays  for  a  minute,  stops.]  What  a  funny  chap 
Hamilton  is !  Your  Anglo-Indian  is  always  a 
little — well,  you  know. 

Lady  C.  He  wasn't  long  in  India;  he  threw 
up  his  post  twelve  years  ago,  when  his  wife 
died 


HAMILTON'S  SECOND  MARRIAGE,   9 

Guy.     Oh,  he's  a  widower,  is  he? 

Lady  C.     Didn't  you  know? 

Guy.  Never  thought  about  it,  Aunt  Peggotty 
I  should  have  said  he  was  a  bachelor;  he 
has  the  cut  of  one.  .  .  .  Wasn't  it  he  who 
put  Sylvia  up  to  having  more  riding  lessons? 

Lady  C.  He  said  they  would  be  good  for  her. 
She  had  never  ridden  in  London  at  all,  and  not 
much  in  the  country 

Guy.  She  didn't  seem  to  care  about  it  before 
he  worried  round. 

Lady  C.  I  don't  think  she  knew  how  lovely 
Bexted  was  till  he  came 

Guy.  I  wonder  what  made  him  go  there.  It 
is  rather  off  the  beaten  track. 

Lady  C.  He  saw  Briary  Way  advertised,  and 
it  sounded  like  the  sort  of  thing  he  wanted. 

Guy.  [Thoughtfully.]  You  see,  he's  rather  eld- 
erly. 

Lady  C.     He's  only  forty-two. 

Guy.  I  believe  he's  gone  on  Sylvia.  They 
take  it  badly  at  that  age. 

Lady  C.  [Who  evidently  dislikes  slang.]  What 
makes  you  think  he's   "  gone  "  on  her  ? 

Guy.  Rather  difficult  to  explain  the  symptoms, 
but  I  know  'em — ^wonder  if  it's  any  good.  He 
had  a  good  pull  all  that  time  in  the  country.  Still, 
she  isn't  a  girl  to  be  snapped  up  easily. 


10       HAMILTON'S    SECOND     MARRIAGE 

Lady  C.  [A  little  severely.']  I  hope  she  re- 
gards marriage  too  seriously  to  be  "  snapped 
up." 

Guy.  Beg  pardon,  Aunt  Peggotty,  didn't  mean 
to  be  rude.  Well,  I  must  get  back  to  my  little 
sister  going  round  and  round  on  her  gee-gee. 

Lady  C.  Are  there  many  girls  at  Madame 
Bunsen's  ? 

Guy.  a  good  many.  Best  riding-school  in 
London  now.  Rummy  thing  for  a  woman  to  do, 
isn't  it? 

Lady  C.     Very.     I  wonder  what  her  history  is? 

Guy.  I  should  think  she  was  in  a  circus  from 
the  way  she  rides — ^no  one  can  touch  her.  Some 
one   said   she   came   from  Mexico. 

Lady  C.     She  seems  to  like  Sylvia. 

Guy.  Shouldn't  wonder — a  good  many  peo- 
ple do.  [Thoughtfully,  after  absently  playing 
for  a  minute  or  two.]  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Japan 
and  have  a  squint  at  the  world  in  general,  for 
a  year. 

Lady  C.  [Surprised.]  My  dear  Guy — what 
for? 

Enter  Servant,  with  telegram 
[Opens  and  reads  it.]  No  answer.  [Exit  Servant. 

Lady  C.  How  tiresome!  Colonel  Dempster 
can't  dine  to-night.     Could  you  come,  dear? 

Guy.  Should  love  it,  but  I'm  engaged — worse 
luck. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       11 

Re-enter  Sir   Henry   Callender. 

Sir  H.  [To  Guy.]  Oh,  is  that  you?  [To  Lady 
C]  I  say  what  the  deuce  are  they  doing  with 
the  library — I  particularly  want  it  this  after- 
noon. 

Lady  C.  My  dear  Harry,  the  place  simply 
reeked  of  tobacco. 

Sir  H.     Why  shouldn't  it?     Excellent  tobacco! 

Lady  C.  But  I  couldn't  let  people  take  their 
cloaks  off  there  till  I  had  it  turned  out.  They've 
taken  down  the  curtains  to  fumigate,  opened  the 
windows,  washed  everything  with  carbolic 

Sir  H.     The  devil 

Guy.  [Quickly  cuts  in  singing.li  "  With  his 
wooden  pail  and   shovel  " 

Lady  C.  Be  quiet,  Guy.  [To  Sir  H.]  They 
are  going  to  burn  some  pastiles,  and  when  Sylvia 
comes  in  I  shall  ask  her  to  arrange  some  of  those 
tall  lilies  there. 

Sir  H.   [Rather  amused.]  Oh!  is  that  all. 
And  where  is  Sylvia? 

Lady  C.  She'll  be  here  very  soon  now.  She 
went  to  the  Debating  Society  at  Lady  Redcar's. 

Sir  H.  And  what's  that?  [Pointing  to  the 
telegram.]  Some  one  thrown  us  over  for  to- 
night ? 

Lady  C.  Colonel  Dempster.  I  asked  Guy  to 
take  his  place,  but  he  can't. 

Sir  H.     Oh!  [To  Guy.]     Why  can't  you? 


12       HAMILTON'S    SECOND     MARRIAGE 

Guy.  Wish  I  could,  but  I'm  going  to  dine  with 
Buckles — Empire  afterwards — they've  got  a  dan- 
cer  

Sir  H.  I  know — Wish  I  were  going — best 
thing  in  town. 

Guy.  Rather!  [Quickly.l  I  say! — Clara  will 
wonder  what's  become  of  me.  Good-bye,  Aunt 
Peggotty. 

Sir  H.  We'll  go  to  the  Empire  together  one 
night,  shall  we? 

Guy.     Should  like  it — awfully.  [Eaiit  Guy. 

Sir  H.  [Evidently  glad  he's  gone.  Turning  to 
Lady  C]      Sylvia  won't  be  back  just  yet? 

Lady  C.     No. 

Sir  H.  That's  all  right.  .  .  .  Now!— 
What  about  to-night?     Would  Hamilton  do? 

Lady  C.  Yes,  he'd  do.  But  I  don't  think  we 
ought  to   ask  him  again — just   yet. 

Sir  H.  Because — Oh,  nonsense — give  him 
time.  He  is  not  the  man  to  rush  things — only 
just  got  his  London  house — wants  to  see  if  he 
can  afford  to  marry  again,  perhaps. 

Lady  C.  But  I  am  certain  Sylvia  is  fond  of 
him.  We  ought  to  have  put  an  end  of  it  before 
— only  I  didn't  see  why  we  should. 

Sir  H.  Neither  did  I — [With  an  inward 
chuckle  which  he  tries  to  hide.^  You  are  quite 
sure  you  would  like  him  for  her? 

Lady   C.      Quite — ^he  is   the   sort   of   man   she 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       13 

ought  to  marry  .  .  .  and  she  would  be  next 
us  at  Bexted 

Sir  H.     Not  too  old? 

Lady  C.  Why  no.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  for 
Guy^  but  he'll  get  over  it 

Sir  H.  H'm!  Hamilton  is  a  good  fellow — 
Dempster,  who  has  known  him  all  his  life,  was 
saying  so  the  other  day — behaved  well  over  some 
crisis — he  didn't  say  what.  ...  I  like  him 
— did     from     the     first.       He's     a     widower,     of 


course 

Lady  C.  But  there  are  no  children,  and  his 
wife  died  long  ago.  .  .  .  I'm  certain  Sylvia 
cares   for  him. 

Sir  H.  [^Triumphantly.']  Well,  look  at  this 
then.  [Pulls  out  note  and  hands  it  to  her.]  Came 
this  morning 

Lady  C.  [Reading.]  "  Could  you  see  me  alone 
— this  afternoon  ?  " — Of  course  it's  that.  [Face 
brightening.]     What  have  you  done? 

Sir  H.  Telephoned.  He  was  out — but  had 
left  word  he'd  be  back  at  four  punctually.  Said 
I'd  ring  him  up  again.  [Looking  torvards  clock.] 
Must  go  in  five  minutes.  Shall  tell  him  to  come 
immediately. — Lucky  he  lives  so  near,  eh?  And 
you've  turned  out  the  library  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  ought  to  receive  my  future  son-in-law 
there  and  do  the  heavy  father. 

Lady  C.     You  must  see  him  here. 


14      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Sir  H.  It's  the  sort  of  interview  no  one  has 
in  a  drawing-room.  A  drawing-room  is  a 
woman's   place. 

Lady   C.      I'll    go   before   he   comes. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before? 

Sir  H.  Only  just  had  it,  been  at  the  Law 
Courts   all  day,  mere  fluke  that   I  came  in  now. 

Lady  C.  Harry!  [Laughing.]  What  with 
wanting  to  take  Guy  to  a  music-hall,  and  going 
to  the  Law  Courts  when  there's  a  case  unfit  for 
publication 

Sir  H.      That's  why — that's  why 


Lady  C.  [Shaking  her  head.]  You'll  never 
be  any  better 

Sir  H.  Never,  my  dear,  but  you  are  good 
enough  for  us  both.  [Pause.]  ...  I  want 
to  tell  you  something  else.  [Hesitates.]  I  ran 
against    Florence    Cathcart    to-day. 

Lady  C.  [Stiffly.]  Oh!  Did  you  speak  to 
her? 

Sir  H.     Yes — of  course  I   did. 

Lady  C.     How  did  she  look? 

Sir  H.  Not  very  well,  poor  thing — and 
rather  forlorn.  [Hesitates  a  minute.]  I  felt 
sorry  for  her. 

Lady  C.  A  pretty  woman  always  gets  you  on 
her   side. 

Sir  H.     I  married  one. 

Lady  C.  shakes  her  head  at  the  compliment. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       15 

Don't  you  think  we  could  let  her  come  and  see 
us  now  and  then,  on  the  quiet,  you  know.  I 
wouldn't  say  anything  till  I  had  spoken  to  you — 

Lady   C.      \^Quickli/.']      No 

Sir  H.     It's  years  ago 

Lady  C.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference.  It 
is  giving  way  and  condoning,  that  makes  these 
things  possible.  No  one  who  has  figured  in  the 
Divorce  Court  shall  come  here  with  my  con- 
sent  

Sir  H.  "  Forgive  us  our  trespasses  " — they 
do   up   there.      [Half  grave,   half  joking.'] 

Lady  C.     I  do.     But  I  can't  let  her  come. 

Sir  H.  Then  what's  the  good  of  forgiving.'* 
— ^won't  do  her  an  ounce  of  good. 

Lady  C.  A  difference  must  be  made.  It  is 
only  by  holding  the  marriage  tie  sacred  that  you 
will  keep  it  unbroken. 

Sir  H.     Still,  you  might  make  an  exception. 

Lady  C.  It's  the  exceptions  that  do  the  mis- 
chief. 

Sir  H.     I'm  afraid  she  hoped 

Lady  C.  [Passionately  hut  firmly.']  I  can't 
help  it.     I'm  sorry. 

Sir  H.  [Looks  at  her  in  dismay,  shrugs  his 
shoulders,  and  then  as  if  he  gives  up  the  sub- 
ject, says]   Well,  I'll  go  back  to  the  telephone. 

[Exit. 
Lady  Callbnder  alone,  enter  Judson. 


16      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

JuDsoN.  J  thought  Sir  Henry  was  here,  my 
lady.     Madame  Buns  en  has  called. 

Lady  C.  He  will  be — directly.  Madame 
Bunsen.f* — er — er — ask  her — ask  her  to  come  in. 

[Exit   JuDSON. 
Re-enters    a    minute    later,    announcing 
Madame   Bunsen.  [Eaiit. 

[Madame    Bunsen    is    in    a    riding    habit. 
Her  manner  is  slightly   foreign,  a  lit- 
tle  stiff   and   distant;   there   is   a   note 
in    her    voice    as    if    uncertain    of    her 
position. 
Lady  C.     Oh!    I  didn't  know  you  were  riding, 
or  I  wouldn't  have  asked  you  to  come  in,  Madame 
Bunsen.     How  do  you  do? 

Madame  B.  How  do  you  do?  .  .  .  I 
was  passing  and  thought  I  would  leave  a  mes- 
sage for  Sir  Henry.  He  spoke  to  me  about  a 
mare  for  your  daughter.  Just  now  I  heard  of 
one  that  a  pupil  may  want  to  sell. 

Lady  C.  He  will  be  here  directly.  Won't  you 
sit  down?  [Madame  B.  shakes  her  head.]  I 
should  like  to  thank  you  for  all  the  trouble  you 
have  taken  with  my — Sylvia.  [Hesitates  before 
the  last  word,  looks  at  Madame  B.,  and  then 
says  it  as  if  satisfied  by  the  inspection.'] 

Madame  B.  [With  a  quick  smile;  she  has  been 
grave  before.]  But  I  love  her — best  of  all — 
she  is  charming. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       17 

Madame  C.  I'm  delighted  to  hear  you  say 
so. 

Madame  B.     And  so  fresh — so  innocent. 

Lady  C.     She  enjoys  her  rides  immensely. 

Madame  B.  I  always  keep  her  beside  me 
when  it  is  possible.  We  have  ridden  many  miles 
between  green  hedges  this  spring.  [Then  with 
a  more  formal  manner.']  I  fear  I  must  not  wait. 
Sir   Henry  isn't  at  home? 

Lady  C.  [Rings.']  Yes^  he  is  at  home.  .  .  . 
I'm   glad  your   school  is   doing  so  well. 

Enter  Servant. 
Ask  Sir  Henry  to  come  at  once.     [Exit  Servant. 

Madame  B.  It  is  doing  splendidly.  More 
and   more   come   every   week. 

Lady  C.  It  is  a  remarkable  thing  for  a 
woman  to  do. 

Madame  B.  [With  a  shrug.]  It's  the  only 
thing  I  can  do — I'm  not  clever. 

Lady  C.  [A  little  curiously.]  And  you  have 
to    do    something  ? 

Madame  B.      [Distantly.]      Oh,  yes. 

Lady  C.  [Sympatheticaily,  evidently  warm- 
ing to  her.]     You  have  no  husband  or  child? 

Madame  B.  No,  I  am  alone.  [With  a  change 
of  tone,  looking  towards  garden.]  How  beau- 
tiful those  lilies  are — how  good  to  have  that 
garden — and  in  London. 

Enter  Sir  Henry. 


18       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Sir  H.  My  dear  Madame  Bunsen — this  is  a 
surprise.      [Shakes  hands.'] 

Madame  B.  I  heard  of  a  mare — one  minute 
ago.  I  think  it  is  just  what  you  want.  Could 
you  come  and  see  it  on  Friday.''  It  belongs  to  a 
pupil  who  will  be   at   the   school  that   day. 

Sir  H.  Why,  certainly — ^with  pleasure — de- 
lighted. 

Madame  B.  You'll  not  decide  on  anything 
else  till  then,  she  is  so  anxious  to  find  a  good 
home   for  it? 

Sir  H.  Of  course  I  won't — I'll  come  and  see 
it  on  Friday — make  a  point  of  it. 

Madame  B.  That  is  excellent.  [Turns  to 
Lady  C,  and  says  rather  distantly.']  Thank 
you  so  much  for  your  reception.      [About  to  go.] 

Lady  C.  I'm  very  glad  to  have  seen  you. 
[Seeing  that  Madame  B.  has  looked  again 
torvards  the  garden.]  I  should  like  to  give  you 
some  flowers — but  you  couldn't  carry  them  now. 
I'll  send  you  some  by  Sylvia  to-morrow — ^if  I 
may.'' 

Madame  B.  [Surprised.]  Oh,  how  kind  you 
are!  and  it  is  so  charming  here.  [Shakes  hands. \ 
I   am   glad   I   came 

Lady  C.     So  am  I. 

Sir  H.     I'll  see  you  off.  [Exeunt  both. 

[Lady  C.  goes  to  window  l.,  as  if  to  see 
her  mount. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       19 

Re-enter   Sir   Henry. 
Lady  C.   [Evidently  looking  after  her,]     What 
an    interesting    woman.      I    wonder    who    she    is? 
She  said  she  was  alone — it  seems  strange.     Why 
is  it  do  you  suppose? 

Sir  H.  Been  projected  into  space  without  any 
belongings,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Well,  I  caught 
Hamilton,  he'd  just   come  in. 

Lady  C.     And ? 

Sir  H.  He'll  be  here  directly.  [Looks  at  his 
watch.^  In  two  minutes.  You'd  better  go,  my 
dear,  he  mustn't  see  you  beforehand.  Be  quite 
wrong,   you   know. 

Lady  C.  There  he  is!  [Listening  and  laugh- 
ing.]    I'll  go  this  way.  [Exit  by  garden. 

Enter   Servant   announcing 
Mr.  Maurice  Hamilton. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Enter    Hamilton     (42),    distinguished    looking, 
hair    slightly    touched    with    grey;    he    must 
have  charm  and  magnetism;  a  little  soldierly 
in   his   bearing. 
Sir  H.     How  do  you  do?     Glad  to  see  you. 
Hamilton.     How  do  you  do? 

[Looks  rather  anxiously  towards  the  window. 
Sir    H.      Sylvia's   out,   the   wife's    busy,   so    I 
thought  I'd  see  you  here. 

Hamil.  [Evidently  amkward.]  Very  good 
of  you 


20       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Sir  H.  They  are  making  an  infernal  havoc  in 
the  library  because  it  smelt  a  little  of  tobacco 
smoke,  and  some  women  are  going  to  take  off 
their  cloaks  there  to-night. 

Hamil.  [Trying  not  to  he  awJcward.'\  I 
should  have  thought  it  would  remind  them  of 
their  own  cigarettes. 

Sir  H.  Not  a  bit  of  it  .  .  .  sit  down. 
Had  your  note. 

Hamil.     I  thought  it  would  be  the  best  way. 

[Sits   down — pause. 

Sir  H.  Anything  I  can  do  for  you?  [Looks 
at  him  half  puzzled.]  Up  a  tree?  Down  a 
hole.? 

Hamil.  [With  a  smile.]  Both,  and  you  can 
do  a  great  deal  for  me 

Sir  H.     Both.?* 

Hamil.  I'd  better  make  a  plunge  and  be  done 
with  it.  I'm  head  and  ears  in  love  with  your 
daughter. 

Sir  H.  Ah!  I'm  not  surprised — frankly, 
not  surprised.  .  .  .  Have  you  spoken  to 
her.? 

Hamil.     No,  I  wanted  to  see  you  first. 

Sir  H.  Oh!  [A  little  doubtfully.]  It's  the 
girl  who  settles  the  matter  in  these  days,  and  the 
father  has  to  give  in,  ask  what  you  have  a  year, 
and  express  a  hope  that  there  are  no  past  irregu- 
larities. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       21 

Hamil.     I  know.     But  there  are  irregularities, 
though   not   of   the   usual   sort 


Sir  H.     Oh!     Money,  perhaps;  the- 


Hamil.  No,  not  money.  There's  no  difficulty 
in  that  direction.  ...  I  should  have  spoken 
a  month  ago,  but  a  chance  remark  fell  from  Lady 
Callender  and  opened  my  eyes.  I  should  go 
away  altogether,  but — I'm  hard  hit — I'm  a  con- 
ceited ass  perhaps  to  think  that  I've  a  chance — 
but 

Sir  H.  Well?  Is  there  any  good  reason  why 
there  shouldn't  be?  Out  with  it,  Hamilton,  what 
is  it? 

Hamil.     You  think  I'm   a  widower — I'm  not. 

Sir  H.     Not? 

Hamil.  The  woman  I  married  is  alive.  I 
divorced  her. 

Sir  H.  The  deuce!  [After  a  pause.']  You 
divorced  her? 

Hamil.     Yes.     Two  years  after  marriage. 

Sir  H.  Oh!  Well;  this  is  a  pretty  kettle  of 
fish — divorce — any  mention  of  it  is  the  deuce  in 
this  l^ouse. 

Hamil.     I  was  afraid  so. 

Sir  H.  [Getting  up  and  walking  about  in 
his  agitation.]  I  think  you  ought  to  have  told 
us  before — when  you  came  to  the  neighbourhood, 
or  when  we  knew  you  first,  at  any  rate. 

Hamil.      It   never    occurred    to    me    that    you 


22       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

didn't  know — ^but  it  was  a  subject  you  would 
naturally  avoid — and  it  wasn't  a  matter  of  which 
/  was  likely  to  speak. 

Sir  H.  How  did  it  happen?  Was  she  very 
young  ? 

Hamil.  She  was  nineteen;  I  was  eight  years 
older. 

Sir  H.  Humph!  .  .  .  Dempster  was  talk- 
ing of  you  the  other  day  at  the  club.  Does  he 
know.f* 

Hamil.  Of  course,  and  probably  thought  that 
you  did.  He  was  in  India  at  the  time — ^knew 
her — ask  him  about  it — anything  you  please. 

[Pause. 

Sir  H.     Poor  chap — two  years 

Hamil.  Not  quite  two — three  before  the  de- 
cree was  made  absolute.  The  other  man  married 
her,  and  they  vanished — ^went  to  the  other  side 
of  the  world,  I  was  told.     It's  twelve  years  ago. 

Sir  H.      [Feelingly.']     What  did  you  do? 

Hamil.  Chucked  my  appointment — ^travelled 
— came  back.  For  a  long  time  I  didn't  dare  to 
think  of  her  at  all.  Then  I  tried  to  imagine  her 
dead;  it  was  better  than  the  other  thing — she  is 
dead  to  me,  and  has  been  for  years.  .  .  .  She 
had  to  be  if  I  was  to  live.  ...  I  tried  to 
get  interested  in  politics — but  I  preferred  to 
keep  in  the  background — I've  always  believed  in 
work. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       23 

Sir  H.  Quite  right — quite  right.  [Ten- 
tatively.'l  When  did  you  fall  in  love  with  my 
little  girl? 

Hamil.     The  first  hour  I   saw  her. 

Sir  H.     Oh! 

Hamil.  She's  too  young  for  me^  I  know  that. 
She  is 

Sir  H.  Twenty-three.  Her  mother  is  eighteen 
years  younger  than  I  am. 

Hamil.  [With  a  rueful  smile. '\  Still  she  may 
regard  me  as  a  fogey.  I'm  forty-two.  But  if 
she  doesn't — ^would  it  be  plain  sailing,  if  I  can 
win  her — when  she  knows  what  I  have  told 
you? 

Sir  H.  My  dear  chap,  I'll  be  frank  with 
you.  I  would  rather  things  had  been  different; 
but  if  she  asks  me,  I'll  not  stand  in  your  way — 
in  fact,  you  may  count  on  me;  but  her  mother 
will  no  more  hear  of  it  under  the  circumstances 
than  she  will  fly.  She  has  strong  views  on  mar- 
riage, and  a  horror  of  divorce — guilty  or  inno- 
cent, it's  all  the  same  to  her,  and  Sylvia  is  much 
more  under  her  influence  than  under  mine.  Upon 
my  life,  I  believe  she'd  be  as  shocked  as  her 
mother. 

Hamil.  Will  you  let  me  put  the  facts  before 
her?  Could  you  put  them  before  Lady  Callen- 
der? 

Sir    H.       [Getting    up    and    walking    up    and 


24       HAMILTON'S    SECOND     MARRIAGE 

down.']  Of  course  I  could — and  a  nice  time  I 
should  have.     I'm   sorry — for  I  like  you. 

Hamil.      Thank   you. 

Sir  H.  [Pause.]  You're  quite  sure  the  other 
woman   isn't   dead? 

Hamil.     I  know  absolutely  nothing  about  her. 

Sir  H.     When  did  you  hear  of  her  last? 

Hamil.  Twelve  years  ago — she  went  to  the 
antipodes  with  the  man  who  is  now  her  husband. 

Sir  H.  Why  shouldn't  we  assume  that  she's 
dead;  she's  dead  to  you,  let  her  be  so  to  us? 

Hamil.      [Firmly.]      No — I    couldn't    do    that. 

[He  turns  away. 

Sir  H.  [Cordially.]  Quite  right.  But  it's 
a  precious  cul  de  sac.  ...  I  wonder  you 
didn't  tell  Sylvia  about  it  before  you  confided  in 
me. 

Hamil.  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  fair — ^be- 
sides it's  not  a  pleasant  story.  I  hoped  if  you 
were  on  my  side  that  you  would  tell  it  her — 
your  views   might   influence  hers. 

Sir  H.  Not  a  bit.  Women  have  such  con- 
founded opinions  of  their  own  in  these  days. 

Hamil.     It's  one  of  the  things  I  like  in  her. 

[Pause. 

Sir  H.  Tell  her  yourself — after  all,  she'll 
take  it  better  from  you;  but  let  her  think  it  over 
before  she  answers.  You'll  be  sent  away  with  a 
flea  in  your  ear,  I'm  afraid. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       25 

Hamil.  I'll  risk  the  flea.  And  in  the  mean- 
time ? 

Sir  H.     You  want  me  to  get  one  on  mine? 

Hamil.     Well 

Sir  H.  I'll  risk  it  too — and  tackle  the 
mother — which  is  a  difficult  business,  I  can  tell 
you — half  a  dozen  fleas  wouldn't  be  equal  to 
that. 

Hamil.  You're  splendid.  [Grasping  Sir 
Henry's  hand.] 

Sir  H.  And  we'll  do  it  at  once [Ring- 
ing the  bell.^      No  time  like  the  present. 

Hamil.      That  is  what  I   want 

Enter  Servant. 

Sir  H.     Has  Miss  Sylvia  come  in  yet? 

Servant.     Just  now.  Sir  Henry. 

Sir  H.  Ask  her  if  she  would  come  to  me 
here. 

\_Ea;it  Servant. 
And,  my  dear  Hamilton,  you  mustn't  think  that 
her  mother  is  ungenerous,  or  anything  of  that 
sort — she  comes  of  a  good  old-fashioned  family, 
that  would  have  been  shocked  at  divorce  and — 
other  modern  inventions 

Hamil.     It's  hardly  modern. 

Sir  H.  Of  course  not.  Henry  VIII.  and  all 
kinds  of  people — but  there  wasn't  much  to  be 
said  for  some  of  the  old  usages — I  think  I'm 
rather  muddling  it  up;  what   I  mean  to   say  is 


26      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

that  she's  rather  for  high  thinking  and  clean  liv- 
ings and  that  kind  of  thing 

Hamil.     So  am  I — we  all  are. 

Sir  H.     Of  course [^Trying  to  remember.] 

Or  is  it  is  in  good  living?     .     .     .     That  would 
cut  both  ways,  eh?      [Laughs.]      Here  she  is. 
Enter  Sylvia  (23),  graceful  and  pretty. 

Sir  H.  [Going  torvards  her,  and  in  a  some- 
what unsteady   voice.]      My   dear,   Mr.   Hamilton 

wants  to  have — er — a  little  talk  with  you 

[E/rit  Sir  Henry. 

Sylvia.  [Who  is  surprised  and  awJctvard.] 
How  do  you  do?  IVe  just  come  from  the  De- 
bating Society — I  told  you  about  it  the  other 
day  in  the  garden. 

Hamil.  I  remember — and  pray  what  did  you 
debate  to-day? 

Sylvia.  Well — ^we  had  a  really  good  subject. 
I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  it 

Hamil.  [Impetuously.]  I  don't  want  to  hear 
— I  want  to  tell  you  something — on  which  all  my 
happiness  depends — I  love  you — you  know  I  love 
you — it  is  uppermost — I  must  say  it  first  of  all 
— I  lovie  you 

Sylvia.     Oh! 

[Holds  out  her  hands;  he  kisses  and  drops 
them. 

Hamil.  I  don't  want  you  to  speak  yet,  dear, 
till  you've  heard — a  fact  of  my  life  that — even 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       27 

if  you   could   love   me — may   make   you   send   me 
away  for  ever 


Sylvia.     Send  you  away  for  ever 

Hamil.  I  thought  you  knew  it  till  a  month  or 
two  ago — or  I  should  have  taken  care  that  you 
did  before  I  came  to-day — but,  knowing  I  love 
you — will  help  you,  in  any  case,  to  deal  with  me 
gently. 

Sylvia.  [Bewildered;  with  a  little  smile.l  It 
can't  be  anything  serious — and  if  it  is 

Hamil.  [Walking  up  and  down.^  I  want  to 
play  the  game  fairly — not  to  urge  you — to  put 
my  case  before  you  dispassionately. 

Sylvia.     Tell  me  what  it  is 

Hamil.     It  is  about  my  first  marriage 

Sylvia.     Yes 

Hamil.  I  was  twenty-seven,  and  home  from 
India  on  six  months'  leave.  A  month  before  my 
time  was  up  I  met  a  beautiful  girl  of  nineteen 
— the  daughter  of  an  Italian  General  who  had 
married  an  Englishwoman — he  was  dead.  I  dis- 
liked  the   mother,   but   Juliet 

Sylvia.     Juliet? — it's  such   a  lovely  name 


Hamil.  [Nodding.]  And  she  was  fit  for  it. 
She  swept  me  off  my  feet — she  was  like  no  one 
I  had  ever  met.  I  loved  her,  I  was  infatuated, 
I  don't  want  to  disguise  that  from  you. 
We  were  married  and  on  board  ship  before  either 
of  us  realised  what  we  were  about 


28       HAMILTON'S    SECOND     MARRIAGE 

Sylvia.     And  then?  "^ 

Hamil.  She  was  a  beautiful,  passionate,  un- 
easy creature — impulsive,  and  so  young — that  is 
the  excuse  I  make  for  her. 

Sylvia.  Excuse — what  did  she  do?  Weren't 
you  happy? 

Hamil.  I  was;  but,  looking  back,  I  fear  she 
was  not.  My  work  occupied  me  a  great  deal — 
she  was  thrown  on  her  own  resources. 

Sylvia.     But  she  had   friends? 

Hamil.  Yes,  of  the  sort  one  makes  in  India — 
and  a  host  of  admirers  always  hanging  about 
her.  I  thought  there  was  safety  in  numbers,  and 
I  am  not  a  jealous  or  suspicious  man — I  don't 
think  I  had  any  reason  to  be  till  the  last.  It 
was  impossible  to  keep  her  down  in  the  heat — 
she  went  up  to  Simla  with  Mrs.  Sinclair,  the  wife 
of  one  of  my  colleagues;  that  was  the  year  after 
our  marriage.  There  was  a  man  called  Farance 
up  there 

Sylvia.     Yes 

Hamil.  He  had  come  out  for  a  holiday,  from 
England.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  he  was 
bent  on  mischief — he  hung  about  her  as  others 
did — ^not  more,  as  far  as  I  knew.  When  I  went 
up  to  Simla  she  told  me  she  had  ridden  with 
him  sometimes  in  the  early  morning — she  rode 
like  the  wind  in  a  storm — but  she  seemed  de- 
lighted to  go  with  me,  too.     I  was  pre-occupied ; 


HAMILTON'S     SECOND     MARRIAGE       29 

there  was  a  threat  of  cholera  below  and  it  worried 
me — perhaps  I  didn't  notice  things  as  much  as  I 
ought  to  have  done — I  knew  vaguely  that  she 
danced  with  him  a  good  deal^  still  I  never  sus- 
pected. One  day — [A  gesture  as  if  he  had  not 
yet  got  over  the  pain  and  the  surprise  of  it^  — 
she  went  off  with  him. 

Sylvia.     Went  off  with  him? 

Hamil.  She  left  the  usual  note  saying  she 
had  gone  with  a  man  who  loved  her  more  than 
I  did. — More!  [As  if  oblivious  of  Sylvia.]  It 
was  so  incomprehensible — for  she  knew  that  I 
adored  her,  and  I  thought  she  cared  for  me — I 
suppose  I  was  mistaken. 

Sylvia.     What  did  you  do? 

Hamil.  I  did  the  only  thing  possible  to  help 
her — got  a  divorce — set  her  free 

Sylvia.     Oh ! 

Hamil.  And  the  other  man  married  her  when 
the  formalities  were  complete.  They  went  to 
Auckland   twelve   years   ago. 

Sylvia.     But  where  is  she  now? 

Hamil.  I  don't  know.  I  know  nothing  about 
her. 

Sylvia.      She's   living? 

Hamil.  I  suppose  so.  If  she  were  dead  I 
think  I  should  have  heard.  There's  nothing  else 
you  need  know — my  marriage  ended  more  com- 
pletely   than    if    death    had    taken    it    in    hand — 


so       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

it's  over  and  finished — and  she's  another  man's 
wife 

Sylvia.  [With  a  shudder.]  Oh,  how  dread- 
ful— and  you  loved  her  so  very  much? 

Hamil.  Yes — I  did — [With  a  pause] — but 
that  is  over  and  finished  too,  she  is  dead  to  me — 
more  than  dead.  For  years  I  was  dazed  and 
cared  for  nothing — I  worked  desperately — work 
is  generally  a  good  physician.  Then  I  went  to 
Bexted — a  new  world — it  woke  a  new  life  in  me, 
and  you  came  into  my  heart — without  know- 
ing it;  gradually  you  filled  every  hour  of  the 
day — I  loved  you — loved  you — as  I  had  im- 
agined it  would  never  be  possible  to  love  any 
woman  again.  I  thought  you  knew  my  position 
— that  your  people,  at  any  rate,  did — then  some- 
thing your  mother  said  made  me  realise  that  you 
didn't,  and  that  divorce  was  a  horrible  thing  to 
her 

Sylvia.  But  it  is  to  every  one,  surely — though 
I  see  that  it  was  the  only  thing  you  could  do. 

Hamil.  It's  strange  to  find  people  feeling  so 
strongly  about  it  in  these   days 

Sylvia.  Perhaps  we  don't  belong  to  these  days. 
To  us  marriage  is  the  most  sacred  tie  in  the  world 
— it  can  only  end  with  death 

Hamil.  Dearest,  marriage  is  not  a  ceremony 
said  over  two  people  in  a  church — it  is  much  more 
than    that.      She   broke    away    from    all    that    it 


HAMIOLTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       31 

meant,  or  she  never  had  it  to  give  me — it  has 
gone  to  the  other  man.  She  is  not  in  my  life  any 
more.  You  are  in  my  life — I  think  you  love  me 
a  little 

Sylvia.  Love  you  a  little — I  love  you  with 
all  my  heart — but  this  makes  it  impossible.  [With 
a  little  shudder']. 

Hamil.  Don't  say  that  yet,  Sylvia — I  entreat 
you  to  think  it  over — to  take  into  your  heart  and 
soul  the  story  I  have  told  you — the  love  I  have 
for  you — and  all  that  yours  would  mean  to  me. 
Don't  let  a  thing  that  is  ended — that  no  longer 
exists — come  between  us,  though  if  it  must  be  so 
I  will  respect  your  feeling — I  will  go  away  and 
you  shall  never  see  me  again 

Sylvia.  [Slowly].  I'll  think  it  over — I  couldn't 
answer  now 

Hamil.  That  is  what  I  want,  dear,  I  wouldn't 
even  take  an  answer — the  one  I  most  desire, 
now.  Send  for  me,  for  good  or  ill,  when  you 
are  sure — I  don't  feel  that  I  can  wait  very  pa- 
tiently— let  me  know  my  fate  soon.  [Takes  her 
hands  and  kisses  them.  Goes  torvards  the  door. 
Looks  round  and  says]   I  will  wait. 

[Sylvia  nods  as  if  unable  to  speak,  and 
sits  looking  dazed,  and  straight  before 
her. 

Curtain. 


ACT    II 

Scene. — The  same. 

Time. — Four  days  later.     Afternoon. 

Sir  Henry  Callender  is  standing  with  his  back 
to  the  mantelpiece.  Lady  Callender  is  sit- 
ting rather  holt  upright  in  an  arm-chair — 
evidently  dismayed.  There  is  silence  for  a 
minute  or  two.  Sir  Henry  pulls  out  a  large 
white  silk  handkerchief,  and  gives  a  gasp  or 
two;  but  he  is  brisk  and  lively  as  usual.  Lady 
Callender  gets  up,  crosses  the  room,  and 
stands  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

Sir  H.     [Looking  up.]     Well,  my  dear? 

Lady  C.     It  has  been  a  dreadful  shock. 

Sir  H.     I  thought  it  would  be. 

Lady   C.      I   wanted  it  so  much. 

Sir  H.  [Soothingly.]  You  make  too  much  fuss 
about  it.  It's  such  a  usual  thing  in  these  days. 
If  we  hadn't  been  country  cousins  we  should 
have  taken  it  for  granted  that  if  his  wife  wasn't 
dead  he  had  divorced  her — or  she  him 

Lady  C.     [Shocked.]     Oh  no 

33 


34       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Sir  H.  My  dear,  divorce  is  becoming  as  com- 
mon as — ^as  motor-racing  or  appendicitis  or — any- 
thing of  that  sort — only  it  hasn't  come  our  way 
any  more  than — living  a  mile  from  the  main 
road — motors  come  our  way — it  will,  depend  on 
it  and  other  things,  too. 

Lady  C.     You  do  run  on  so. 

Sir  H.  So  does  the  world — it  won't  stop  where 
it  was,  or  is,  never  did — new  ideas,  different  ways 
of  thought  come   along — can't  prevent  it. 

Lady  C.  I  wish  you  had  said  it  was  impossible 
— that  you  had  not   allowed  him  to   see  her. 

Sir  H.  Well,  but  after  all,  Sylvia  is  the  person 
it  most  concerns.  She's  three  and  twenty  and  it's 
only  fair  play  that  she  should  decide — fair  play 
to  them  both.  I  expect  we've  given  them  that, 
for  I've  said  everything  I  could  for  it — felt  bound 
to,  he's  such  a  good  chap — you  probably  said 
everything  you  could  against  it,  so  there  you 
are. 

Lady  C.  But  if  he  hadn't  seen  her — if  she 
had  been  told   of  the  impossibility 

Sir  H.  Humph — she  might  have  broken  her 
heart — I  don't  think  it  would  have  done,  I  don't 
really — she's  been  very  sensible,  thought  it  over, 
taken  three  days — and  if  she  decides  for  him  we 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  .  .  .  After  all  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  the  other  woman's  dead 
— she  ought  to  be — the  least  she  could  do  in  fact 


HAMILTON'S     SECOND     MARRIAGE       35 

is  to  be  dead. — Have  you  any  idea  what  she  is 
going  to  do — Sylvia,  I  mean? 

Lady  C.  No.  She  begged  me  not  to  speak  to 
her  about  it  again. 

Sir  H.     So  she  did  me. 

Lady  C.     She  listened  to  all  my  arguments. 

Sir  H.  And  to  all  mine — we  have  done  every- 
thing we  can — and  she's  had  a  pretty  time  of  it, 
between  us. 

Lady  C.     He  should  have  told  us  before. 

Sir  H.  But  he  thought  we  knew,  till  lately. 
If  we  had  been  in  London  before  this  year,  and 
he  had  been  seen  at  our  house,  some  one  might 
have  mentioned  it — though  things  are  forgotten 
so  soon,  even  that  might  not  have  happened. 
People  often  think  you  know  more  about  them 
than  you  do.  Look  at  the  Senior  Wrangler  who 
went  to  the  theatre  just  after  taking  his  degree, 
and  when  the  audience  cheered  the  play  he  thought 
— but  you  know  that  story.  I  daresay  Hamilton 
thought  we  knew  all  about .  him,  and  looked  at 
the  facts  of  his  life  with — with  sympathy. 

Lady  C.     I  wonder  what  Sylvia  means  to  do. 

Sir  H.  If  she  accepts  him — so  must  we — the 
younger  generation  to  which  she  belongs  and  the 
new  world — and  the  new  ways  of  thought  are 
different  from  the  old  ones,  and  we  mustn't  be- 
have like  fogies — at  least  I  mustn't  though  I  am 
one. 


36      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Lady  C.     Or  I  like  a  frump? 

Sir  H.  You  couldn't — any  more  than  you 
could  look  like  one. 

Lady  C.     Here  she  is. 

Enter  Sylvia.  She  looks  proud  and  gravely 
happy. 

Sir  H.    Well,  my  dear.?^ 

Sylvia.  I  want  to  see  you  before  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton comes — I  wrote  to  him — he  will  be  here 
directly. 

Lady  C.     And — and  have  you  decided 

Sylvia.  \^LooJcing  at  her  mother  and  putting 
out  her  hands  to  them.']  Oh,  I  am  afraid  to  tell 
you.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  darlings,  I  have  decided — 
and  I  am  so  happy — so  glad 

Lady  C.     Glad! 

Sylvia.  That  the  chance  is  given  me  to  mend 
that  broken  life.  I  think  it  was  splendid  of  him 
to  have  it  out  with  father  before  he  spoke  to  me 
— and  he  didn't  urge  me — or  not  more  than  he 
could  help,  he  only  told  me  that  he  loved  me  and 
insisted  that  I  should  think  it  all  over  before  I  said 
yes  or  no.     And  I  have — I  have! 

Lady  C.  You  don't  feel  that  he  is  still  mar- 
ried } 

Sylvia.  [With  a  thrill  in  her  voice.]  No — o — o, 
mother.  That  marriage  is  more  completely  at  an 
end  than  if  she  were  dead. 

Lady  C.     Sylvia! 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       37 

Sir  H.  You're  quite  right — in  my  opinion, 
quite  right. 

Sylvia.  For  then  he  might  have  been  think- 
ing of  her — loving  her  all  these  years.  Dream- 
ing of  an  eternity  with  her  by-and-by. 

Sir  H.     Naturally. 

Sylvia.  It  would  be  far  worse  to  marry  him, 
and  worse  in  him  to  marry  again,  if  she  had  loved 
him  to  the  last  moment  of  her  life;  it  would  mean 
forgetfulness,  or  seem  like  playing  her  false  be- 
cause she  wasn't  here  any  longer.  But  this  is 
different. 

Sir  H.  Quite  right.  Unless  you  have  good 
reasons  you  ought  never  to  marry  again — or 
marry  at  all  in  fact.  I  think  there  are  reasons 
why  people  may  marry  twice — but  I  daresay  it 
will  lead  to  embarrassments  in  the  next  world — 
at  least  it  may 

Lady  C.  [Distressed  but  affectionate.]  Oh, 
you  do  talk  such  nonsense,  Harry. 

Sir  H. — But  as  you  say  this  is  different. 

Sylvia.     She  killed  his  love  for  her. 

Sir  H.  There  was  nothing  to  hold  them  to- 
gether in  fact  but  the  marriage  ceremony. 

Sylvia.     And  the  law  annulled  that. 

Lady  C.  It  was  a  marriage  in  the  sight  of 
God.  And  she  promised  to  be  faithful  to  him 
all  her  life. 

Sylvia.     And  in  the  sight  of  God  she  broke 


38       HAMILTON'S     SECOND    MARRIAGE 

that  promise,  and  the  law  recognised  that  she  had 
broken  it.  They  became  strangers  again.  She 
married  another  man,  and  she's  that  man's  wife — 
not  Mr.   Hamilton's. 

Sir  H.  I  should  think  you  made  a  very  good 
debater,  Sylvia.  And  in  this  instance  there's  been 
that  most  eloquent  counsel — a  woman's  heart — to 
plead  his  cause. 

Sylvia.  Oh,  father,  but  I've  used  my  head, 
too.  I've  argued  with  myself,  leaving  my  heart 
out  of  the  question.  I  have  put  all  the  reasons 
against  it  before  myself 

Sir  H.     Oh!  ~ 

Sylvia.  I  didn't  want  to  be  weak  just  be- 
cause  

Sir  H.  Of  course  not — you  have  taken  counsel 
— as  I  say. 

Lady  C.  [Slowly.]  And  if  this  woman  were 
in  London — if  you  met  her? 

Sylvia.  [Di-arving  back  as  if  she  had  not  con- 
sidered this.]     But  she's  not 

Sir  H.  She's  on  the  other  side  of  the  world 
— he  doesn't  know  where,  he  hasn't  seen  her  for 
twelve  years — more — not  since  the  decree  was 
made  absolute  and  she  married  the  other. 

[Lady  C.  gives  a  little  shudder  at  "  Decree." 

Sylvia.  Surely  God  and  man  alike  have  set 
him  free? 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND     MARRIAGE       39 

Lady  C.  And  suppose  one  day  you  met  her, 
face  to  face? 

Sylvia.     I  hope  I  may  never  do  that! 

Lady  C.  But  you  must  realise  it — it's  quite 
possible. 

Sylvia.  [Slowly. "l  I  don't  think  I  should 
mind — I  should  know  that  in  heart  and  thought 
they  were  strangers.  If  he  cared,  it  would  be 
different.  [Turns  away  distressed.^  It's  no  good, 
I  can't  give  him  up — be  kind  to  me — help  me 

Sir  H.  [Caressingly.']  Kind  to  you,  my  dear 
— why  we  couldn't  be  anything  else.  .  .  .I'll 
leave  you  with  your  mother,  she  wants  you  to  be 
happy — it's  the  thing  she  wants  most  in  the  world 
— ^that's  why  she  hesitates  so — that's  why. 

[Ejcit   to  garden. 

Sylvia.  [Turning  ^o  Lady  C]  Mother,  he's 
the  whole  world  to  me.  Won't  you  face  it,  won't 
you  see  it  as  I  do?  She's  more  than  dead  to  him; 
she  went  out  of  his  life  years  ago  and  into  an- 
other man's.  He  is  free.  And  you  like  him? 
You  liked  him  so  much  at  Bexted 

Lady  C.  He  is  the  only  man  I  ever  hoped  you 
would  marry — till  I  knew  this.  [Evidently  has  a 
long  struggle  with  herself.]  But  I  will  try  and 
look  at  it  with  you  and  your  father,  since  you 
don't  feel  as  I  do  about  it.  [Sylvia  kisses  her 
hand  gratefully.]     I'll  do  anything  that  will  make 


40       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

you  happy.     .     .     .     [Sylvia  gives  almost  a  sob 
of  relief.]     He'll  be  here  directly. 

Sylvia.     Yes,  he'll  be  here [Sir  Henry  is 

seen  near  the  window.]     When  he  comes  send  him 
to  me — tell  him  I  shall  be  by  the  lavender  bushes. 
I   would  rather   see   him  out  there. 
[Exit  by  garden,  passing  her  father,  who  re-en- 
ters. 
[Lady  C.  makes  a  little  gesture  and  is  about  to 
speak    when    Servant    enters,    followed    by 
Colonel   Dempster,   a  military-looking   man 
of  about  five  and  forty;  all  through  the  in- 
terview it  is  evident  that  he  has  great  regard 
for  Hamilton. 
Servant.     Colonel  Dempster.      [Ea;it  Servant. 
[The  Callenders  look  rather  put  out  for 
a  moment,   but  recover  quickly. 
Sir  H.     Oh,  how  do  you  do? 
CoL.  D.     How  do  you  do?     [Turning  to  Lady 
C]  I  came  to  apologise  for  my  absence  the  other 
night. 

Sir  H.  Don't  mention  it — that  sort  of  thing 
will  occur  at  the  best-regulated  dinner-parties 
you  know.  [Pause.^  We  are  expecting — er — 
Hamilton. 

CoL.  D.  I  saw  him  at  the  Club  yesterday — he 
seemed   rather   preoccupied. 

Lady  C.  You've  known  him  a  long  time,  Col- 
onel Dempster? 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       41 

Col.  D.     a  very  long  time. 

Lady  C.     And  you  like  him? 

Col.  D.  I've  the  greatest  regard  and  respect 
for  him. 

Sir  H.      [To  his  wife.']     You  hear  that. 

CoL.  D.      [Looking  round.]      Is  there   [with  a 
smile]  some  special  reason  for  this  question? 
Enter  Servant  announcing. 

Servant.     Mr.  Maurice  Hamilton. 

Sir  H.  [Going  forward.]  Ah,  there  you  are 
— how  do  you  do?     Heard  you  were  coming. 

Hamil.  [A  little  awkwardly,  after  shaking 
hands  with  Sir  Henry.]  How  do  you  do,  Lady 
Callender  ? 

[She  shakes  hands  and  says  nothing. 

Hamil.     I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here. 

Col.  D.  I've  only  come  for  five  minutes — with 
an  apology.     I  am  going  directly.     [Significantly, 

Hamil.  [With  a  smile.]  You  needn't.  .  .  . 
[In  a  low  eager  tone  to  Lady  C]  I  had  a  note 
telling  me  I  might  come. 

Lady  C.     I  know. 

Hamil.     She's  not  here? 

Sir  H.  [With  a  merry  nod.]  She's  in  the 
garden. 

Hamil.     [To  Lady  C]     May  I  go  to  her? 

Sir  H.     She's  waiting  for  you. 

Hamil.  [Turning  quickly  to  the  window — 
when  he  gets  there  stops,  looks  round  with  a  happy 


42       HAMILTON'S     SECOND     MARRIAGE 

face,  and  says  to  Sir  H.,  nodding  at  Dempster.] 
Tell  him.     He  is  the  best  friend  I  have. 

Col.  D.  I  think  I  can  make  a  good  guess.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  expected  it  since  I  saw 
them  together  last  month.  He's  a  fine  fellow — 
I'm  very  glad. 

Lady  C.     I'm  miserable  about  it 

CoL.  D.  My  dear  lady!  Miserable?  She'll 
be  immensely  happy. 

Lady  C.  But  the  divorce.^  We  knew  nothing 
of  it  till  three  days  ago. 

Col.  D.     Well,  but  he  was  on  the  right  side. 

Lady  C.      \^Shuddering.^      I  hate  divorce. 

Sir  H.  And  I  maintain  that  it  is  a  very  wise 
provision.  A  man  has  a  wife  who  doesn't  care 
for  him — or  has  changed  her  mind — likes  some- 
body else — is  unfaithful — best  thing  he  can  do 
is  to  let  her  go  to  the  other  man — in  fact,  what 
else  is  he  to  do  with  her^  Unless  he  shoots  her — 
and  then  he'd  be  hanged.  [To  his  wife.]  I  as- 
sure you,  my  dear,  that  to  object  to  it  only  shows 
that  you  are  old-fashioned  and — and  early  Vic- 
torian. [Appealing  to  Colonel  D.]  I  believe 
that's  one  of  the  worst  things  that  any  one  can 
be  called. 

Col.  D.  Quite.  Almost  fatal.  So  bad  that 
it  ought  to  be  libellous,  whether  it's  true  or  not. 
[Turning  to  Lady  C]  Believe  me,  my  dear  lady, 
you've  nothing  to  be  uneasy  about. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       43 

Lady  C.  [With  a  little  smile  and  shrug.']  I've 
given  way.  They  are  together  now.  [Looking 
towards  the  garden.] 

Sir  H.  It's  an  excellent  thing  to  sweep  out 
prejudices.  Besides,  I  always  vote  for  doing  the 
best  one  can  for  everybody — ^especially  for  a 
pretty  woman,  or  a  man  who  is  a  good  fellow;  it 
makes  the  world  easier  and  pleasanter. 
Now  tell  us  something  about  Hamilton.  You  knew 
him  in  India? 

Col.  D.  Oh,  yes — and  before  that — knew  all 
his  people. 

Lady  C.     Did  you  know  his  wife? 

CoL.  D.     I  did,  indeed. 

Lady  C.     And  her  people? 

Col.  D.  Only  the  mother — who  wasn't  much 
good  to  her — in  a  rackety  set,  and  took  lovers  as 
the  natural  accompaniment  of  marriage,  of  life, 
even  in  middle  age.  When  I  knew  her  she  was 
a  widow 

Sir  H.  Of  course,  they  always  are.  Girl 
badly  brought  up,  no  doubt — what  was  she  like? 

Col.  D.  a  strange,  beautiful  creature.  I  didn't 
see  much  of  her  in  India.  It  all  happened  up 
at  Simla. 

Lady  C.  [A  little  cynically.]  Like  a  Kip- 
ling story. 

Sir  H.  Those  stories  shouldn't  be  encouraged — 
you  see  they  come  true,  sometimes.     But  they're 


44       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

amusing  to  read — I  thoroughly  enjoy  them — 
especially  when  they — well — when  they  go  a  little 
bit  off  the  rails. 

Lady  C.  Oh!  [Impatiently  shaking  her  head, 
hut  amused  and  indulgent,  as  she  always  is  with 
her  husband."] 

CoL.  D.  People  were  very  sorry  for  him.  He 
was    frightfully   cut   up. 

Sir  H.  Of  course — of  course.  Should  be  my- 
self. What  was  the  other  man,  Farence — yes,  it 
was  Farence — like? 

Col.  D.  Good-looking,  and  women  liked  him. 
She  bolted  with  him  quite  suddenly,  no  one  sus- 
pected anything  till  it  was  done. 

Lady  C.     Was  Mr.  Hamilton  fond  of  her? 

CoL.  D.  Devoted — but  he  was  fearfully  over- 
worked and  harassed.  He  got  a  divorce — wanted 
to  settle  money  on  her,  but  she  refused  it. 

Sir  H.     That  was  decent  of  her. 

Col.  D.  Oh,  yes — and  no  matter  what  she  did, 
she  was  a  charming  girl,  with  nothing  vicious 
about  her.  She  and  Farence  disappeared,  and 
nobody  heard  anything  more  of  them — or  of 
Hamilton  either,  except  through  the  papers, 
though  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  bur- 
row out  of  sight. 

Lady  C.  He  was  sensitive,  of  course.  I  like 
him  for  it. 

Sir  H.     He  took  a  little  place  next  to  us  at 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       45 

Bexted  a  year  or  two  ago.  Used  to  take  long, 
lonely  rides — saved  me  from  a  nasty  spill  one 
day — that's  how  we  came  across  him.  He 
didn't  want  to  know  anybody,  we  had  to  force 
ourselves  on  him. 

CoL.  D.  Oh,  that  was  it.  [Getting  up  and 
making  a  movement  of  departure.]  Look  here, 
I'll  go  before  these  young  people  re-appear.  I 
should   feel  de  trop. 

Sir  H.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  can  congratulate 
them. 

Col.  D.  I  think  I'll  do  it  another  time,  if 
you'll  let  me.  [Shaking  hands  with  Lady  Cal- 
LENDER.]  I  am  glad  I  came  in,  if  it  has  given 
you  any  comfort.  If  I  had  a  girl,  I  should  be 
only  too  delighted  if  he  married  her. 

Sir   H.      [Going  towards  the  door  with  him.] 

And  so  will  she  be.  [Outside  the  door.]  Very  glad 

to  have  seen  you.  [Re-enters. 

[Lady  C.  is  standing  by  the  sofa,  looking 

out   towards  the  garden. 

Sir  H.  Well,  is  that  all  right?  [She  nods  and 
he  puts  his  hand  on  her  arm.]  You  know,  the 
fact  is  you  didn't  like  being  worsted  after  setting 
up  a  fine  moral  fence  and  saying  no  one  shall 
get  over  it. 

Lady  C.  [Smiling.]  Perhaps  that  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it. 

Sir  H.     It  never  does  to  make  a  hard  and  fast 


46       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

rule,  it's  sure  to  get  some  knocks  or  be  kicked 
aside.  An  open  road  to  walk  on — an  open  mind 
to  live  with,  and  you  are  safe. 

Lady  C.     I  know. 

Sir  H.  [Following  direction  of  her  eyes.'] 
Here  they  come.  She's  radiant!  What  a  nice 
chap  he  looks — I  don't  wonder — should  do  it  my- 
self if  I  were  a  woman — Ah!  [Sound  of  satisfac- 
tion.] 

[Hamilton  and  Sylvia  appear  at  window. 
They  hesitate  for  a  minute  and  then  en- 
ter.    Sylvia  goes   up  to  her  mother 

Sylvia  [Joyfully.]  Mother,  dear!  [Lady  C. 
folds  her  to  her  heart  and  kisses  her.]  And  Mau- 
rice  

Sir  H.  It's  evidently  all  right.  [Wrings 
Hamilton's  hand.]  My  dear  fellow,  may  you 
indeed  be  happy.  God  bless  her! — [Putting  his 
arm  round  Sylvia] — and  make  her  so. 

Hamil.  I  will — I  promise  you  I  will.  [Turn- 
ing to  Lady  C]     And  you  will  trust  me? 

Lady  C.  [Brightening  up  a  little.]  Yes,  I 
give  her  to  you — I  trust  her  to  you.  [Gives  him 
her  hand.] 

Sylvia.  [Shy,  but  radiant.]  I  want  to  tell 
you  both — that  your  child  is  the  happiest,  proud- 
est girl  in  the  world. 

Hamil.     That's  good  hearing  for  me. 
Enter  Guy  Armitage.     There  is  a  little  hesita- 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       47 

Hon  and  awkwardness  which  he  perceives  and 
evidently  does  not  know  how  to  account  for. 
Guy.     [Hesitating  by  the  door.]     How  do  you 
do,  every  one. 

Sir  H.     Oh!— Come  in,  Guy 

Sylvia.     How  do  you  do. 

[Nods  to  him  and  turns  to  Hamilton. 
Guy.    [Looking  round.]      Anything  going  on? 

Sir  H.     Oh!     WeU 

Lady  C.     Guy,  dear,  come  in. 

[Guy   comes   forward  and   evidently   takes 
in  the  situation.     Pause. 

Sir  H.     Well 

Guy.  [Constrained,  and  looking  at  Hamilton 
and  Sylvia,  who  are  standing  together.]  The 
Governor  sent  me  round.  Clara's  a  bit  dull,  and 
he  thought  we  might  get  up  a  party  and  go  some- 
where. 

Sir  H.     Capital!     We  ought  to  do  something 
to-night — don't    you   think    so — [looking    towards 
Sylvia   and   Hamilton] — ^just  the  time.^ 
Sylvia.     Not  to-night — I  couldn't,  dear. 

[Turns   to   Hamilton   again. 
Lady    C.    [To   Guy.]      And    I    don't    think   / 

could.     You  must  tell  your  father  that — that 

Sir  H.  Why  shouldn't  you  all  come  and  dine 
here?  That's  a  good  idea,  eh?  What  do  you  say, 
Sylvia? 

Sylvia.    [Who  has  been  talking  beamingly   to 


48       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Hamilton.]     Yes?    Say  to  what?     I  didn't  hear. 
[To  Guy.]     I'm  dreadfully  rude — do  forgive  me. 

Sir  H.  [To  Lady  C]  Look  here — is  it  go- 
ing to  be  any  sort  of  secret? 

Lady  C.      You  must  ask  Sylvia. 

Sylvia.  Why  should  it  be  a  secret?  Espe- 
cially from  Guy.  [LooMng  up  at  Hamilton.] 
He  has  always  been  one  of  us. 

[Guy   evidently  perceives  what  is  coming, 
and  pulls  himself  together. 

Lady  C.     Yes — and  always  shall  be. 

[Evidently  fond  of  him. 

Sylvia.  [Going  forward  to  him.]  Guy,  dear, 
wish  me — wish  us  both — happiness.  I'm  engaged 
to  Maurice   Hamilton. 

Guy.  [Rather  ruefully  for  a  moment.]  Thought 
there  was  something  in  the  air  when  I  came  in. 
[Recovering.]  I  wish  you  everything — «very^ 
thing  in  the  world  that's  good.  You  know  it — 
dear  old  girl.  Hamilton  [holding  out  his  hand] 
you're  in  luck. 

Hamil.     Yes,  I'm  in  luck. 

Guy.  [Unconsciously  retreating  backwards  to- 
wards the  piano.]     When  did  it  happen? 

Sylvia.     Just  now. 

Sir  H.  No  one  knows  it  yet  outside  this  room. 
You  came  in  at  the — the,  what  do'ye  call  it,  psy- 
chological moment. 

Guy.     When's  it  to  be? 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       49 

Sir  H.  Nothing  like  Guy  for  coming  straight 
to  the  point,  eh? 

Hamil.  It's  to  be  soon — as  soon  as  possible; 
there's  nothing  to  wait  for. 

Sylvia.     Oh,  I  didn't  say  that. 

Sir  H.  Trousseau,  finery  .f*  As  much  as  you 
like,  my  dear. 

Guy.     It's  rough  on  me,  anyhow. 

Lady  C.     Rough  on  you.'' 

Guy.  I  sha'n't  be  here  to  pew-open  at  the  wed- 
ding. 

Sir  H.     Oh!     Not  here? 

Guy.  I  told  the  Governor  this  morning — go- 
ing to  make  tracks  for  Japan 

Sylvia.     Tracks  for  Japan? 

Guy.  That's  it.  I  want  to  see  what  the  world's 
like  the  other  way  up. 

Sir  H.     Oh! 

Guy.  [Solemnly,']  But  I  don't  know  how 
you'll  get  through  it  without  me. 

Sylvia.  Neither  do  I.  Couldn't  you  put  the 
Japanese  off  for  a  bit? 

Guy.  [Backing  towards  the  piano — looks  round 
him  with  somewhat  forced  merriment.]  I  fear 
not.  It's  now  or  never  for  the  little  Japanese — 
the  time  has  come  and  the  Governor's  willing — 
so  we'll  have  a  little  tune.  [Begins  to  play. 

**  Did  you  ever  see  the  devil ** 

[Lady  C.  makes  a  little  gesture.] 


50       HAMILTON'S    SECOND     MARRIAGE 

Lady  C.     That  everlasting  song! 
Sir   H.     He'd  sing  it  in   church  if  he  came, 
wouldn't  he? 

Guy.     Rather.  [Sings 

[Sylvia,  laughing,  goes  a  step  nearer  the 
piano. 
Sir  H.  [^ Joins  in  lustily.^ 
"  Did  you  ever  see  the  devil 

With   his   vrooden   pail   and   shovel " 

Enter   Servant   rvith   a   note,   hands   it   to 
Sir    Henry.      Guy    continues    to    play 
softly. 
Sir    H.    [Reading   note.^      It's    from   Madame 
Bunsen. 

Guy.  [Stops.]  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot,  I  meant  to 
tell  you  she's  going  away  for  a  bit — this  after- 
noon. 

Sylvia.     What  does  she  say,  father? 
Sir  H.     Says  she  has  to  go  to  the  country  sud- 
denly; will  I  wait  a  week  or  ten  days  about  the 
mare?     Of  course  I  will. 

Guy.      By   George,   you  should   have   seen   her 

this  morning  whirling  round   that  school 

Sylvia.     Isn't  she  wonderful?     I   do  like  her 
so.     You  know  she  came  here  the  other  day,  Guy? 
Guy.     No;  I  didn't  hear  that — came  here? 
Sylvia.     And  mother   fell   in  love  with  her — 
sent   her  some  flowers   yesterday — Madame   Bun- 
sen  was  so  pleased — she  almost  wept. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       51 

Lady  C.  I  should  like  to  know  her  history — 
there  was  something  very  attractive  in  her. 

Sir  H.  Handsome  woman — you've  seen  her — 
haven't  you,  Hamilton? 

Hamil.  No;  but  I  should  like  to — can't  think 
why  I  haven't — she  goes  out  with  her  pupils, 
doesn't  she? 

Sylvia.  Yes;  but  she  always  takes  us  outside 
London,  right  into  the  country,  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible.    You  must  see  her — Maurice. 

[In  a  tone  that  shows  the  name  is  new  to 
her. 
Hamil.     I  want  to  see  her. 

Sylvia.  [To  Hamilton.]  You  might  come  to 
the  school  and  look  on  at  me,  too. 

Hamil.  [Nods  to  her  with  a  tender  smile.] 
I  will. 

[Guy  begins  to  play  again,  the  Lohengrin 
Wedding  March,  and  looks  up  at  Sylvia 
half -derisive,   half -pathetic. 
Sylvia.    [Laughing  and  confused.]   You  horrid 
boy! 

[Lifts  his  hand  from  the  keyboard.     Ham- 
ilton, who  is  standing  well  aruay  from 
them,  looks  amused,  and  says  nothing. 
Lady  C.     Some  people  won't  have  that  March; 
they  say  it's  unlucky. 

Sir  H.  [Who  is  looking  at  Madame  Bunsen's 
letter,  turning  to  Hamilton.]      Can't  make  out 


52       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

her    name.      Is    it    Julia — no    Suzette  ?— curious 
hand  she  writes? 

[Hands  letter  to  Hamilton. 
[Guy,    who   has   got   his    hand    free    from 
Sylvia,    triumphantly   launches   into   the 
Wedding  March  again. 
Sir  H.  You  young  scoundrel! 

[Laughing,  turns  from  Hamilton,  and  go- 
ing towards  Guy.     Sylvia  takes  Guy's 
hands  off  the  piano  again,  with  a  happy 
laugh. 
Hamil.    [Whom    no   one   notices,   looks   at    the 
letter  as  if  transfixed.^     Juliet! 

Sir  H.     Let's  have  the  devil  again.      [Begins 
to  sing. 

[Guy  plays  it  again,  the  group  at  the 
piano  sing  it.  Hamilton  stands  alone, 
petrified — the  letter  falls  from  his  hand. 

Curtain. 


ACT    III 

Scene. — Sylvia's  sitting-room — a  pretty  white 
room  with  flowers,  etc. — mullion  window. 

Time. — Ten  days  later,  morning. 

Hamilton  and  Sylvia  discovered  sitting  together. 
Sylvia  is  happy  all  through  this  scene — 
confident  in  the  future.  Hamilton  is  moody 
and  absent,  jerky  and  happy  all  by  turns. 

Sylvia.  But,  Maurice,  dear,  I  thought  you 
wanted  to  be  in  London.  I  have  always  lived 
in  the  country,  except  for  three  months  every 
spring,  and  don't  mind  how  quiet  it  is,  nor  how 
far  away — I  shall  have  you  and  that  is  all  I 
want. 

Hamil.  l^He  lifts  her  hands  and  kisses  them.^ 
And  you  won't  miss  the  Debating  Society? 

Sylvia.  No,  I  shall  miss  nothing,  and  the  De- 
bating Society  won't  have  married  people. 
I  long  to  explore  the  library  at  Briary  Way — 
there  are  such  lovely  rows  and  rows  of  books — I 
should  like  to  have  a  little  writing-table  of  my 
own  there 

Hamil.      You    shall    explore    as    much   as   you 

like — you  shall  have  six  writing-tables 

53 


54>      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Sylvia.     No,  thank  you,  one  will  do. 
But  I  am  certain  to  make  all  manner  of  changes. 
I   shall  love  to   fuss   about  the  house  as  mother 
does — I  look  forward  to  it  as  part  of — of 

Hamil.  Part  of  the  show?  [Amused.'\  You 
shall  fuss  to  your  heart's  content. 

Sylvia.  I  can't  believe  that  I  shall  be  living 
there  with  you,  in  a  little  while.  I  think  we  ought 
to  have  loose  chintz  covers  in  the  drawing-room 
— those  brocaded  ones  are  handsome — I  only  saw 
them  once  of  course — but 

Hamil.  You  shall  have  covers  and  curtains  and 
everything  else  you  like,  my  dear.  I  was  wonder- 
ing to-day  if  you  would  care  for  some  ponies  to 
drive.     I  might  get  you  a  pair. 

Sylvia.  I  should  love  them — but  we  will  ride 
too — long  rides  ?  I  can  take  them  now — or  all  my 
lessons  will  have  been  thrown  away.  You  will  let 
me  ride? 

Hamil.  Yes.  [With  a  little  change  in  his  man- 
ner.]— If  you  like 

Sylvia.  Madame  Bunsen  will  be  quite  cut  up 
at  your  stopping  my  lessons.  She  was  so  kind  to 
me.  She  didn't  say  much,  you  know — she  never 
talked  to  the  pupils — ^but  she  generally  kept  me 
beside  her  on  all  those  long  rides  into  the  country 
this  spring — [with  a  little  happy  sigh.]  Oh!  it 
was  lovely!  I  think  she  knew  how  much  I  liked 
being  near  her. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       55 

Hamil.  [Trying  to  hide  his  dismai/.]     Did  she? 

Sylvia.  [Nods.]  I  used  to  find  myself  looking 
in  her  direction  and  listening  to  the  least  word 
she  said.  I  mean  to  go  and  see  her  when  she 
comes  back. 

Hamil.     Why  should  you — better  not. 

Sylvia.  Oh,  but  I  should  like  to — and  to  tell 
her  about  you. 

Hamil.     I  would  rather  you  didn't 

Sylvia.  [Surprised  but  unsuspicious.]  Then 
I  won't.     She  is  not  back  yet. 

Hamil.  I  know — [This  is  evidently  a  slip  and 
he  adds  quickly.]  I  inquired — I  was  passing — - 
Perhaps  you  might  send  her  a  note  of  apology — 
that  would  be  enough — and  we  shall  be  far  away 
soon. 

[Pause,  he  crosses  the  room. 

Sylvia.  Do  you  know,  Maurice,  I  think  you 
have  taken  a  dislike  to  your  house  in  Kensington 
Square  ? 

Hamil.  No,  but  I  don't  want  to  live  there — at 
present. 

Sylvia.  [Quite  unsuspiciously.]  I  wonder  you 
took  a  house  at  London. 

Hamil.  I  bought  it  on  an  impulse  from  Fisher, 
who  was  going  off  to  Vienna.  That  day  at  Bex- 
ted  when  he  stayed  behind  instead  of  going  to 
hear  your  father's  speech — I  thought,  for  the 
first  time,  that  perhaps  you  cared [Sits 


56       HAMILTON'S     SECOND     MARRIAGE 

Sylvia.  [Softly.]     I  did! 

Hamil.  I  was  always  a  castle  builder,  and 
when  I  saw  that  house,  I  had  a  vision  of  your  go- 
ing up  and  downstairs — lately  I've  sometimes  fan- 
cied I  could  hear  your  dress  rustle  and  see  you 
coming  down  ready  for  the  theatre  or  the  Opera — 
you  told  me  once  that  you  would  like  to  go  often 
to  the  Opera  [she  nods] — you  shall. 

Sylvia.  What  else  have  you  imagined,  Mr. 
Dreamer  ? 

Hamil.  Quiet  evenings  in  the  winter,  sitting 
by  our  fireside — you  and  I 

Sylvia.  Opposite  each  other  like  Darby  and 
Joan? 

Hamil.  Perhaps  sometimes  they  sat  on  the 
same  side.^ 

Sylvia.     I  wonder 


Hamil.  I  think  it's  probable.  .  .  .  You 
don't  want  dinner-parties  or  to  know  crowds  of 
people.^ 

Sylvia.  No,  I  don't.  .  .  .  [Tenderly.]  All 
the  castles  you  have  built  shall  stand  and  the 
dreams  come  true.  Oh,  we'll  be  so  happy,  but — 
[A  little  puzzled]  I  don't  think  you  believe  it  yet. 

Hamil.  Sometimes  I  don't  .  .  .  [Gets  up 
and  walks  about,  then  stops  suddenly.]  I  can't 
.     .     .     Say  that  it  will  go  on — that  you  love  me. 

Sylvia.  I  love  you.  I  have  said  that  a  good 
many  times  lately 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       57 

Hamil.  And  the  old  mistake — my  mistake, 
makes  no  difference — you  are  sure? 

Sylvia.     I  will  make  up  to  you  for  it 

Hamil.  And  nothing  shall  come  between  us? 
You've  gripped  the  facts — you  know  what  you  are 
doing  ? 

Sylvia.  I  gripped  them  that  first  day,  and  I 
have  thought  it  all  out  since — I  know  what  I  am 
doing,  nothing  shall  come  between  us. 

Hamil.  \With  his  arms  round  her.]  And  you 
don't  mind  the  quiet  marriage? 

Sylvia.  I  like  it  better,  there  will  be  more  you 
in  it,  and  less  crowd,  than  there  would  have  been 
if  we  had  the  usual  fuss. 

Hamil.  And  then  we'll  go  away  to  the  other 
side  of  the  world. 

Sylvia.  [QuicJclt/.]  Not  to  the  other  side  of 
the  world — we'll  keep  to  this  side,  our  side. 

Hamil.    We  will — our  side — France  and  Spain. 

Sylvia.     Or  Italy — I've  never  been 

Hamil.  [Uneasily.]  Not  Italy.  But  we'll  go 
to  heaps  of  beautiful  places 

Sylvia.  That  you've  never  seen  with  any 
one  else.  [With  more  meaning  than  she  knows  in 
her  voice.] 

Hamil.  [Repeating  tenderly.^  That  I've  never 
seen  with  any  one  else.  [Passionately.^  Oh! 
Once  more — it's  too  good  to  be  true.  I'm  not  too 
old  for  you,  too  battered,  too  grumpy  and  moody? 


58       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Sylvia.  No!  And  battered?  You  are  not  bat- 
tered, 

Hamil.  [^Taking  her  hands  and  kissing  them.] 
I  love  you. 

Sylvia.  [Looking  at  her  own  hands  which  he 
still  holds,]  When  is  my  ring  coming  back?  I 
wish  it  hadn't  been  too  big,  I  want  to  wear  it. 

Hamil.  To-morrow.  [With  a  change  of  man- 
ner.] By  the  way  I've  something  else  for  you;  I'd 
forgotten  that,  what  a  ruffian  I  am!  [Feels  in  his 
pocket.]     But  where  is  it? 

Sylvia.     Oh! 

Hamil.  Oh!  [Mimicking  her  in  fun.]  You 
said  that  just  like  your  father.      [Kisses  her.] 

Sylvia.   [Laughing.]  Did  I? 

Hamil.  [Quite  happy  and  gay.]  Where  the 
deuce  is  it?  [Feeling  in  his  pockets.]  By  Jove! 
What  did  I  do  with  it?  What  an  ass  I  am,  it's 
not  there — I  can't  have  lost  it. 

Sylvia.     What  is  it?     Do  tell  me. 

Hamil.     It's   something  in   a  little  case 

Sylvia.     Another    ring? 

Hamil.  [Still  busy  with  his  pockets.]  No,  not 
another  ring — yet — something  else — to  wear  round 

your  neck.     Oh!   I   suppose  it's  all  right 

[Sits   down. 

Sylvia.  [Laughing.]  What  have  you  done  with 
it?  Tell  me  what  it's  like. 

Enter  Servant  with  little  package  on  tray. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       59 

Hamil.  By  Jove!  Is  this  it — perhaps  I 
dropped  it —  Oh,  no,  it's  too  big. 

Sylvla.  [Taking  package.  Exit  Servant.] 
Why!  It's  Guy's  writing.  He's  coming  in  this  af- 
ternoon to  say  good-bye.  [Opens  itJ\  What  a 
lovely  bangle!  It's  a  wedding  gift.  Oh,  Maurice! 
a  wedding  gift,  the  first  one  I've  had. 

Hamil.     They'll  come 

Sylvia.  [Opens  a  note  and  readsJ\  **  Dear 
Sylvia,  I'm  not  going  to  see  you  this  afternoon, 
I've  funked  saying  *  Good-bye,*  and  I'm  off. 
Every  good  wish.  Wear  this  sometimes  in  re- 
membrance. Renewed  congratulations  to  Ham- 
ilton. Your  affectionate  old  playfellow,  Guy." 
— Guy's  gone!  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry! — 
I  shall  miss   him. 

Hamil.  He's  a  good  chap — ^what  an  awfully 
nice  bangle.  [Business. 

Sylvia.  [Business  with  if.]  Isn't  it  a  dear.^ 
But  why — why  didn't  he  come — I'm  so  sorry  not 
to  see  him  again — you  can't  think  what  he  has 
been — all  my  life.  His  mother  was  my  mother's 
greatest  friend — ^that's  why  he  calls  her  Aunt 
Peggotty. 

Hamil.      I   know,   and   you   are   all   very   fond 

of   him — I'm   awfully  sorry   for  him,  poor   chap. 

I   say,  do  you  mind   if  I   rush  back  to 

the    House   and    see    if    that    thing   is    there?      I 

might  have  left  it  in  the  cab  and  if  so,  I'll  tele- 


60       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

phone  to  Scotland  Yard — I'm  rather  uneasy  about 
it.  I  shouldn't  be  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  gone.  [Gets  up  suddenly.^  Let's  go  to- 
gether.     Come  with  me — in  a  taxi. 

Sylvia.  No.  Go  alone  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll 
wait  for  you  here.  You'll  be  quicker  without 
me,  and  I'm  rather  upset  at  not  seeing  Guy 
again. 

Hamil.  [With  a  little  sympathetic  sound.']  Of 
course  you  are!  I'll  be  back  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  [Turns  to  go,  then  suddenly  comes 
back,  takes  her  face  between  his  hands  and  looks 
at  it  gravely.]      My  dearest,  I  love  you! 

[Exit  Hamilton. 
[Sylvia  alone,  sits  thinking,  then  gets  up 
and    makes    business    about    the    room. 
Looks  at  her  bangle,  rings  the  bell. 
Enter  Servant. 
Sylvia.     Judson,  has  the  dressmaker  sent? 
JuDSON.     No,  miss. 
Sylvia.     Let  me  know  if  she  does. 
JuDsoN.      Yes,   miss.  [Ea^it. 

[Sylvia  looks  at  her  bangle  again,  puts 
it  in  the  case,  says  "  Dear  old  Guy  ** 
— goes  to  piano — plays  a  full  minute  or 
two. 

Enter  Judson. 
JuDsoN.     Could  you  see  Madame  Bunsen,  Miss? 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       61 

Sylvia.  Madame  Bunsen?  Oh,  yes,  cer- 
tainly.    Ask  her  to  come  in. 

Enter  Madame  Bunsen  in  walking  dress. 

Sylvia  [Going  forward  and  holding  out  her 
hand.']  Madame  Bunsen,  I  thought  you  were 
away  still 

Madame  B.  I  have  came  back  suddenly — 
sooner  than  I  expected — I  only  went  on  busi- 
ness— I  cannot  bear  the  country,  unless  I  am 
riding  with  my  pupils. 

l^Sits    on    chair   Sylvia   indicates. 

Sylvia.  Oh!  But  it's  lovely — you  seemed  to 
like  it  on  all  those  rides  this   Spring. 

Madame  B.  That  was  different.  .  .  .  Just 
as  I  was  starting  to  come  back  I  had  a  telegram 
— that  is   why   I   am  here. 

Sylvia.     A  telegram? 

Madame  B.  I  heard  of  a  mare  before  I  went 
away — I  told  Sir  Henry.  It  belongs  to  one  of 
my  pupils  who  is  going  to  Egypt.  He  promised 
to    wait    before    deciding    on    anything. 

Sylvia.     Yes,  but 

Madame  B.  She  is  going  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected, and  telegraphed  to  the  school.  It  was 
sent  on  to  me.  I  got  it  this  morning  at  the 
station — then  ran  from  the  house  with  it — she 
is  so  anxious  to  sell  the  mare — I  think  it  is  just 
what    you    want — don't    say    you    have    one. 


62       HAMILTON'S     SECOND     MARRIAGE 

Sylvia.     I   haven't — here,  that  is — ^but 


Madame  B.  Sir  Henry  told  me  the  one  you 
had  in  the  country  was  no  good  for  London — 
that  it  had  a  mouth  like  a  money-lender's  con- 
science  

Sylvia.     I   haven't — here,  that  is — but 


Madame  B.     He  hasn't  bought  you  one? 

Sylvia.  No,  but  I  don't  want  one — now.  I 
am  going  abroad,  perhaps.  Didn't  you  get  my 
father's   letter.^ 

Madame  B.     Oh,  no;  has  he  written  about  it? 

Sylvia.     Yes,  to  the  school. 

Madame  B.  They  only  sent  on  the  telegram, 
I  haven't  been  there  yet — I  hurried  here  first. 
What  did  he  say? 

Sylvia.  He  wrote  to  tell  you  that — it  is  quite 
sad  [with  a  happy  smile] — I'm  not  coming  to 
the   school   any  more. 

Madame  B.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry — you  are  the 
pupil  I  have  liked  best — I  shall  miss  you  so. 
Why  is  it? 

Sylvia.  I  fear  there  will  be  no  time  for  any 
more  lessons  just  at  present — I'm — I'm  going  to 
be    married — quite    soon. 

Madame  B.  [Impulsively  holding  out  her 
hands.]  But  that  is  good  news,  I'm  delighted. 
I  have  looked  at  you  sometimes  and  felt  you 
would  be  so  much  loved — and  now  it  has  come 
true. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       63 

Sylvia.  Thank  you,  dear  Madame  Bunsen. 
Yes,   I   am  much  loved 

Madame  B.  That  is  why  you  look  so  happy! 
I  am  not  surprised,  of  course.  I  thought  it  was 
coming.     I  knew  it. 

Sylvia.     But  why.^ 

Madame  B.  Oh — h — I  could  see  it — he's  de- 
voted  to   you. 

Sylvia.     You  don't  know  him.? 

Madame  B.  But  I  have  seen  him  very  often 
lately,  and  any  one  could  tell  that  he  loved  you; 
it  was  in  his  face 

Sylvia.  He  went  to  ask  if  you  were  back 
this  morning,  but  he  didn't  say  he  knew  you. 
[Puzzled.^     I  wonder 

Madame  B.  Oh,  but  he  doesn't  really,  he 
wouldn't  call  it  knowing.  He's  delightful. 
You've   known   him   a   long   time? 

Sylvia.  A  little  for  a  long  time,  but  inti- 
mately— only — not  quite  a  year.  He  is  our  neigh- 
bour in  the  country. 

Madame  B.  Not  quite  a  year — but  that  is 
a  long  time — unless  you  are  cold — unless  you  are 
insensible — and  you  are  so  tender.  You  have  had 
time  to  love  him — to  adore  him.  A  year!  A 
lifetime   can   be   lived   in   a   year. 

Sylvia.  \^Carried  away  hy  the  other's  emo- 
tion.^ It  doesn't  seem  long,  it  has  gone  so 
quickly. 


64       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Madame  B.  [Not  noticing  Sylvia V  remark 
and  going  on  quickly. 1  I  married — for  the  first 
time — a   man    I'd   only   known   a   month. 

Sylvia.  For  the  first  time!  You've  been 
married  twice? 

Madame  B.  Yes,  twice.  And  the  first  time 
I  might  have  been  happy,  I  could  have  been — 
[in  a  low  voice] — but  it  was  all  a  sad  mistake 
— for  him  and  me,  too — and  the  second  time  I 
was  miserable,  because — [with  a  shudder] — but 
he's  dead — one  mustn't  speak  ill  of  the  dead — 
and  I  oughtn't  to  speak  of  these  things  at  all 
— you  must  forgive  me.  [Risings  and  her  man- 
ner becomes  a  little  distant  and  strained,  as  if 
she  remembered  that  intimacy  was  not  desirable.] 
Let  me  give  you  my  congratulations.  It's  not 
likely  that  we  shall  meet  again — unless  you  come 
back  after  you  are  married.  I  am  glad  I  came 
to-day — and  that  I  came  the  other  day,  too,  and 
saw  your  mother — she  was   very  kind  to  me. 

Sylvia.     She  liked  seeing  you  so  much. 

Madame  B.  And  now  I  know  what  you  look 
like  in  your  home. 

Sylvia.     This  is  my  own  little  sitting-room. 

Madame  B.  [Walking  round  it.]  It  looks  like 
you.  ...  I  shall  think  of  you  here.  [Stop- 
ping by  the  window.]  There  is  the  garden,  I 
shall  imagine  you  walking  in  it  with  your  bride- 
groom  


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       65 

Sylvia.  I  hadn't  thought  of  him  by  that 
name.  I  notice  that  you  so  often  use  words  that 
seem  almost  foreign,  and  you  make  your  sen- 
tences sometimes  as  if  you  were  not  English. 

Madame  B.  My  father  was  Italian,  and  I 
suppose  even  modes  of  speech  descend  to  one. 

Sylvia.      [Vaguely.]      Italian? 

Madame  B.  Yes,  Italian.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm 
glad  I  came — I  wonder  if  ever  I  shall  see  you 
again — perhaps  not.  Good-bye.  I  hope  you  will 
be  very  happy — that  he  loves  you — cloves  you — 
not  a  little,  but  with  all  his  heart,  before  all 
things — before  his  work — before  everything. 

Sylvia.     He  does — I  know  he  does. 

Madame  B.  Dear  child,  I  am  glad — it  must 
be  such  joy — and  may  you  give  him  as  much  as 
he  does  you. 

Sylvia.     I  do — I  will. 

Madame  B.     [With  a  sigh.']     Good-bye. 

[Takes  her  hand,  holds  it,  and  then  im- 
pulsively and  yet  half  afraid  kisses 
her. 

Sylvia.  Dear  Madame  Bunsen,  I  shall  never 
forget  you.  I  hope  you  will  be  happy,  too — in 
the  future — you  must  have  had  so  much  trouble, 
and  yet  you  look  so  young. 

Madame    B.      I'm   thirty-three. 

Sylvia.     And  you've  been  married  twice! 

Madame  B.     [As  she  half  turns  to  go.^     Twice. 


66      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

The  first  time  at  nineteen — and  the  second  time 
when   I    was   twenty-two. 

Sylvia.  The  second  time  when  you  were 
twenty-two!  But  how  soon  your  happiness  was 
over — the  first  time. 

Madame  B.  It  hardly  came — I  waited  for  it 
— but  it  never  came. 

Sylvia.     He  died  so  soon? 
Madame  B.     He  didn't  die. 

Sylvia.     He  didn't  die. [Looking  at  her 

doubtfully. 

Madame  B.     He  divorced  me. 
Sylvia.     Oh!     [Slowly.]     He  divorced  you? 
[An    almost    unconscious     suspicion     takes 
possession  of  her. 
Madame   B.     Ah!     I   oughtn't  have  said  it — 
you  are  shocked.     Why  did  I?     You  mustn't  re- 
peat it,  not  to  any  one  in  the  world. 

Sylvia.     I  am  sorry,  and  I  will  not  repeat  it. 
[She  has  grown   cold,  and  almost   fright- 
ened,  she   is   watching   Madame    Bun- 
sen,   who  goes  towards  the  door,   then 
stops  again. 
Madame    B.      Good-bye.      My    congratulations 
to  Mr.  Armitage. 

Sylvia.  To  Mr.  Armitage?  He  has  gone 
away.     Didn't  his  sister  tell  you? 

Madame  B.  No.  [With  a  smile  and  forced 
brightness.]     He'll  be  back  soon,  of  course? 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       67 

Sylvia.     Not  for  a  year. 

Madame  B.  Not  for  a  year!  But — it's  Mr. 
Armitage   you're   going   to   marry.'* 

Sylvia.  Oh,  no!  You've  made  a  mistake.  It 
is  Mr.   Maurice  Hamilton. 

Madame  B.  [With  a  cry,  staggers  bacJc.'\ 
Maurice ! 

[She  tries  to  smother  the  name. 

Sylvia.  [Bervildered  and  hardly  able  to 
speak.']      You  know  him? 

Madame  B.  [Trying  to  control  herself.]  I 
did — a  long  time  ago — he  is  very  clever — he  is 
like  no  one  else  in  the  world — and  you  love  him 
— you  will  make   him  happy 

Sylvia.  [Holds  out  her  hand  to  prevent  her 
from  going  away.]  Madame  Bunsen,  were  you 
— ^was  it  you  he  divorced.'' 

[They  look  at  each  other  for  a  moment, 
before  Madame  B.  can  make  herself 
ansrver. 

Madame  B.  Yes,  he  divorced  me.  I  deserved 
it;  it  was  my  fault,  not  his.  You  knew — he 
had  divorced  some  one.'' 

Sylvia.  Yes.  [Rigidly.]  He  told  me  you 
were  on  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

Madame  B.  [With  a  little  harsh  laugh.]  And 
I  thought  he  was  there — I  never  dreamt  he  was 
back  in  England — and  here!  You  must  let  me 
go — I  would  give  my  life  not  to  have  come  here 


68       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

to-day.     It  was  as  if  something  irresistible  drove 
me — to   you — to   this    house. 

\_Goes  towards  the  door. 
Enter  Hamilton. 
[They  stare  at   each  other  for  a  moment 
in    silence,    Sylvia    unconsciously     re- 
treats,  pale   and  stony. 
Hamil.      [Looking  at   Madame   Bunsen,   stag- 
gered.'\      Juliet! 

Madame   B.     Yes,  Maurice,  it  is   I. 

Hamil.     What  are  you  doing  here? 

Madame    B.      It   was    chance,    it   was    fate,    it 

was    not   intentional 

Hamil.     What  did  you  come  for?     What  does 
it  mean? 

Madame  B.     You  must  let  her  tell  you.     [Bows 
her  head  as  if  stricken.^ 

[Exit   Madame    Bunsen. 
[Sylvia    and    Hamilton    are    left    staring 
at  each  other  aghast  and  silent, 
Hamil.     What  did  she  come  for? 
Sylvia.      It   is   Madame    Bunsen? 
Hamil.     Yes. 

Sylvia.     But  you  knew  before;  why  didn't  you 
tell  me? 

Hamil.     I  couldn't. 

Sylvia.      You   went   to   try   and    find   her   this 
morning 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       69 

Hamil.  I  sent — to  ask  if  she  had  returned — 
I  couldn't  explain  then 

Sylvia.  Why  did  you  say  she  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world? 

Hamil.  I  thought  she  was — till  the  hour  we 
were  engaged. 

Sylvia.     Till  the  hour  we  were   engaged? 

Hamil.  We  were  at  the  piano — do  you  re- 
member Guy  came  in — while  he  was  playing  a 
note  was   brought  to  your   father? 

Sylvia.     Yes 

Hamil.  He  gave  it  to  me  to  read.  I  recog- 
nised her  writing — her  name,  Juliet. 

Sylvia.  Oh,  how  cruel!  This  is  why  you 
have  been  so  strange  at  times? 

Hamil.     Yes. 

Sylvia.     You  should  have  told  me. 

Hamil.      I    couldn't.      I    have    not    known    an 

hour's   peace   since — even   with   you 

[i4    long   pause, 

Sylvia.  [Slorvly.]  Maurice.  It's  no  good 
— I  can't  do  it 

Hamil.     What  do  you  mean? 

Sylvia.     It  undoes  it — it  puts  an  end  to  it  all. 

Hamil.  Why  should  it  put  an  end  to  it  all? 
What  did  she  say? 

Sylvia.  It's  nothing  that  she  said.  But  can't 
you    see    that    it's    different — it's    different    alto- 


70      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

gether.  When  I  thought  she  was  thousands  of 
miles  away,  when  I  had  never  seen  her,  or  heard 
her  voice — when  I  knew  nothing  about  her — then 
she  was  an  abstraction,  a  legend,  she  was  dead, 
she  was  more  than  dead,  but  now — I  couldn't  do 
it — couldn't — couldn't. 

Hamil.  We  will  go  away — we  will  go  to  the 
farthest  ends  of  the  earth  if  you  like. 

Sylvia.  It  would  make  no  difference.  I've 
known  her,  taken  her  hand,  she's  a  living  woman 
— I  can't  do  it. 

Hamil.  Why  should  that  make  such  a  differ- 
ence.''     She's  another  man's  wife. 

Sylvia.     The  other  man  is  dead! 

Hamil.     Dead!     [Goes  back  a  step.'\ 

Sylvia.     Didn't  you  know? 

Hamil.  I  knew  nothing  about  her.  Nothing 
since  the  day  I  heard  she  was  married  to  Far- 
ence  and  had  gone  back  to  Auckland  with  him. 
I  sent  my  lawyer  to  the  school  this  morning,  and 
told  him  to  offer  her  any  sum  of  money  I  could 
manage — to  say  and  do  anything  that  was  pos- 
sible to  induce  her  to  go  back — to  go  anywhere 
— out  of  Europe — that  can  be  done  still., 

[Pause. 

Sylvia.  It  would  be  no  good,  I  couldn't  do 
it — Maurice,  it  is  all  over 

Hamil.  But  explain,  why  should  you  throw 
me  over  now? 


HAMIiLTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       71 

Sylvia.  [Passionatelt/.]  How  could  I  marry 
a  man  knowing  that  another  woman  whom  I'd 
seen  and  heard,  remembered  his  loving  her,  re- 
membered his  kisses — his  caresses  just  as  now  I 
had  them — remembered  their  wedding  day — and 
knew  by  her  own  memories  all  that  he  said  to 
me — that  she  went  over  it  all  in  her  thoughts — 
sat  alone — by  her  fireside,  imagining  the  very 
manner  in  which  we  sat  by  ours — even  the  things 
we  said — oh — no,  no. 

Hamil.  It  was  the  other  man  she  cared  for 
— she  wouldn't   feel  all  this 

Sylvia.  She  would — she  would — a  woman 
knows.  If  she  were  dead  it  would  be  differ- 
ent  

Hamil.  You  said  when  we  had  our  talk  in  the 
garden,  that  you  felt  she  was  less  my  wife  than 
if  she  were  in  her  grave,  and  she  and  I  had  loved 
each  other  to  the  end.  For  then  there  might 
have  been  times  when  I  wondered  if  in  some 
other  existence  she  knew  of  the  new  life  I  had 
made — and  felt  that  I  had  forgotten  her 

Sylvia.      [Hopelessly.]      Yes — I    said   it. 

Hamil.  But  now  that  is  impossible — she  and 
I    are   absolutely   apart. 

Sylvia.  I  know — I  meant  it — I  had  thought 
it  all  out,  but  I'd  not  been  put  to  the  test.  Now 
I  know  it  'would  be  easier  to  marry  you  re- 
membering  her    dead — than    as    it   is.      I    argued 


72       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

to  the  contrary  with  my  mother — I  had  an  answer 
to  all  her  arguments — ^but  words  are  only  sounds, 
and   theories    are   dry   husks 

Hamil.  Dry  husks!  [With  a  miserable  half- 
laugh.']      It  sounds  like  the  Debating  Society. 

Sylvia.  Oh,  yes,  if  you  like — and  the  Debat- 
ing Society  is  no  good.  Nothing  is  any  good  but 
human  experience,  then  one  knows — one's  instinct 
— one's  heart  tells  one.  It  isn't  as  if  I  had  seen 
her  just  this  once — though  even  that  would  be 
enough — I  saw  her  every  day  for  weeks.  She 
kept  me  beside  her  as  we  rode  into  the  country 
twice  a  week  this  spring.  Once  I  went  early 
to  school  and  met  her  by  the  entrance;  she  held 
my  hand  for  a  minute — just  now  she  kissed  me 
— it  went  through  me — thrilled  me — there  was 
meaning  in   it  all — it  was  this. 

Hamil.  And  you  are  not  made  of  the  stuff, 
you've  not  the  courage  to  throw  everything  to 
the  winds  for  the  man  you  love,  as  thousands 
of  women  do.^ 

Sylvia.  She  did,  I  suppose,  for  the  other 
man — and  brought  misery  on  you.  I've  not  that 
courage.  I  believe  I  would  go  down  a  precipice 
for  you,  but  not  if  it  dragged  you  down.  But 
this  is  beside  the  point — it's  no  question  of  cour- 
age. 

Hamil.  Have  you  no  thought  of  my  happi- 
ness, no  consideration  for  my  point  of  view? 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       73 

Sylvia.  Oh,  I  have,  but  I  can't  do  it — it's  no 
good,  Maurice,  I  can't:  it's  the  penalty  of  the 
sin  that  she  committed. 

Hamil.  And  why  should  it  be  visited  on 
me.'* 

Sylvia.  [Staring  at  him,  and  speaJcing  as  if 
she  were  listening  to  some  one,  or  to  some  higher 
self.']  But  that  is  the  mystery  of  it  all.  The 
wrong  thing  is  done,  the  crooked  deed  put  into 
the  world,  and  shame  and  misery  hang  on  to  it 
and  trail  after  it  on  and  on,  ever  so  far,  through 
generations  perhaps — so  many  wrong  things  are 
done,  and  innocent  people  suffer  for  them — 
that  is  the  tragedy  of  the  world.  I've  thought 
it  out  so  often — it's  the  Debating  Society,  you'll 
say  again — no  matter  what  it  is — it  is  wrecking 
us. 

Hamil.  [Impatiently,  desperately.]  Cast 
everything  to  the  winds  and  come  to  me.  We 
love  each  other. 

Sylvia.  I  can't,  I  can't  do  it,  Maurice,  now 
that  I've  seen  her.  I  even  love  you  differently 
— I  shall  love  you  always  and  think  of  you — 
but  differently. 

Hamil.     Oh,  it's  madness,  it's  folly. 

Sylvia.  Yes,  it  may  be.  But  the  great  events 
in  our  lives  are  shaped  by  folly  as  well  as  by 
wisdom,  I  can't  do  it — I  can't,  indeed.  I  could 
never   feel   your   arms    round   me   again,   and   not 


74       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

remember   the   woman   who^   perhaps,   was   think- 
ing of  us — of  all  she  had  lost — that   I  had 


Hamil.  Heaps  of  women  marry  men  who 
have  divorced  their  wives. 

Sylvia.  Other  women  may,  I  can't.  My  own 
happiness  is  wrecked  on  this  discovery  as  well 
as  yours — and  somehow  I'm  so  sorry  for  her — 
for  a  moment  I  saw  into  her  heart  and  soul  as 
she  stood  there.  Can't  you  understand  how  im- 
possible it  has  all  become?  We  are  not  all  made 
alike.  It  is  no  good  blaming  me  for  what  I  am, 
or  blaming  her  perhaps  for  what  she  is — I  am 
so  made  that  I  cannot  be  or  do  all  that  was  my 
dearest  hope  an  hour  ago. 

Hamil.  It's  useless,  I  see  it.  I  say  it — to 
my  desolation  and  misery.  I  scout  it,  and  am 
desperate.  I  tell  myself  that  what  you  say  is 
nonsense,  but  I  feel  the  truth  of  it.  Give  me 
your  hands  once  more  \hends  over  her  hands^  my 
dear — it  has  been  too  good  a  dream  to  come 
true.  But  I  shall  be  better  for  it  all  my  life. 
Forgive  me  all  the  pain  I've  caused  you.  I  sup- 
pose I  went  too  far  away  from  the  world  in 
which  men  and  women  live  now  in  my  search 
for  happiness — but  it's  over — and  I've  left  you 
where  I  can  never  reach  you.     [Goes  toward  door. 

Sylvia.  [With  a  soh.']  Maurice!  Maurice! 
What  will  you  do — where  will  you  go? 

Hamil.        [A     gesture     of    dismay — despair — 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       75 

then  turns  and  hesitates.^  Kiss  me  once  more, 
Sylvia ! 

Sylvia.  I  can't — [Retreating  a  step.] — it  is 
different — it  would  feel  strange — and  wrong 

Hamil.  [Bitterly.]  You  are  right — it  is  dif- 
ferent.    .     .     .     Good-bye.  [Exit  Hamilton. 

Sylvia.  [Desperately,  holding  out  her  arms, 
with  a  cry,  to  the  closed  door.]  He's  gone! — 
He's  gone. 

Curtain. 


ACT    IV. 

Scene. — Hamilton's  study  in  Kensington  Square. 
A  comfortable  room,  with  books,  writing- 
table,  easy  chairs,  S^c.  Writing-table  to  r. 
c.  Fire  burning  in  grate  which  faces  au- 
dience. Door  L.  c.  Window  r.  Lamp  on 
table,  SfC. 

Time. — Eight  months  have  elapsed.  Late  after- 
noon. 

Hamilton  discovered  sitting  at  a  writing-table, 
he  arranges  papers,  <^c.     Business. 

Enter  Becker  with  letters  on  tray  and  evening 
paper,  which  he  puts  on   the  writing-table. 

Hamil.     Oh — thank   you. 

[^Takes   letters,   throws   paper  on   writing- 
table. 
[Becker  makes  business  at  the  fire — puts 
on  wood,   <^c. 

Hamil.  [Looking  up  from  letter  and  speak- 
ing with  animation.^  Oh^  Becker,  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  this  house  is  sold,  the  matter  was 
concluded  this  afternoon.     I  shall  be  going  abroad 

77 


78       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

again  in  a  month,  and  everything  here  will  be 
finished  up.  Tell  the  servants — I  vrish  them  to 
know  as  soon  as  possible.  Of  course  I  shall  do 
anything  I  can  for  them. 

Becker.  Yes,  sir.  They'll  be  very  sorry.  We 
all  hoped  that  as  the  house  didn't  go  off  while 
you  were  away  that  perhaps  you  would  settle 
down  a  bit. 

Hamil.     Not  in   England. 

Becker.  It's  remarkable  it  should  sell  directly 
you  come  back,  sir,  and  it  didn't  all  the  time  you 
were  away. 

Hamil.  Perhaps  the  agents  weren't  ener- 
getic enough. 

Becker.  There  was  a  good  many  come  after 
it,  too.  One  lady  came  every  month,  with  an 
agent's  order — but  she  wouldn't  look  at  it  till  you 
were  back.  I'd  like  to  know  if  it  is  her  that's 
bought  it. 

Hamil.  No,  it's  a  parson.  A  lady,  what  sort 
of  a  lady? 

Becker.  Well,  quite  a  lady,  sir — Mrs.  En- 
field her  name  was;  she  came  again  to-day.  I 
told  her  you  were  back,  and  she  said  she'd  call 
again  to-morrow.  You  see  I  didn't  know  it  was 
sold. 

Hamil.  Curious  thing.  .  .  .  Well,  the 
parson  has  it,  Becker,  so  I'm  afraid  she  can't. 
Vou'U  tell  the  servants  what  I've  said. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       79 

[He  turns  to  the  table. 
[Exit  Becker. 
[Hamilton  looks  at  his  letters  again  and 
puts  them  aside,  gets  up,  takes  up  pa- 
per, stops,  puts  it  down,  pokes  the  fire, 
lights  a  cigarette,  sits  down  doggedly 
as  if  determined  to  shut  out  every- 
thing. 

Enter  Becker. 
Becker.      Colonel    Dempster    has    called,    Sir; 
will  you  see  him? 

Hamil.  [Looks  over  his  shoulder  as  Becker 
enters.]  Ah!  [Jumps  up  quickly  at  the  name.] 
Certainly.     Ask   him   to   come  in. 

[Exit  and  re-enter  Becker. 
Becker.     Colonel  Dempster. 

Enter  Col.   Dempster.      [Exit  Becker. 
Col,  D.     My  dear  fellow,  I'm  so  glad  to  have 
caught  you. 

Hamil.  [Going  forward.^  I'm  awfully  glad 
to  see  you.  [Grasping  his  hand. 

CoL.  D.  Was  vexed  to  be  away  when  you 
returned.  However,  here  I  am.  [Takes  off  his 
coat.']  You  got  back  a  week  ago,  I  hear!  Glad 
to  be   in   England   again?      [They  sit.] 

Hamil.  No,  only  came  back  for  some  busi- 
ness— and  to  see  you — going  away  again,  directly 
things  are  tidied  up  here. 

CoL.  D.     H'm,  sorry  for  that — ^hoped  you  were 


80      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

thinking    better    of    it,    was    afraid    you    weren't 
though,  when   I   saw  the  board  up   outside. 

Hamil.  It  will  be  pulled  down  to-morrow. 
The   house  is  sold — matter  concluded  to-day 

CoL.  D.  [With  a  grunt.l  What  are  you  go- 
ing to  do? 

Hamil.     Don't  know 

[Pause,  hands  the  cigarettes. 

CoL.  D.  [Lights  one.]  Not  made  up  your 
mind? 

Hamil.  Some  idea  of  going  to  Egypt  for  the 
fag-end  of  the  winter — wish  you'd  come  with 
me 

Col.  D.     Can't,  I'm  afraid.     I  should  like  it. 

.     .     .     Seen   any   one   since   you   came   back? 

Hamil.  No.  .  .  .  Have  you  seen  any  one 
lately? 

Col.   D.      Everybody,   been   here   all   the  time. 

Hamil.     [Uneasily.]     You  know  what  I  mean. 

Col.  D.  Of  course  I  do,  but  I  was  afraid  to 
mention  it. 

Hamil.  You  needn't,  so  go  on.  I'm  not  a 
sentimental  fool — that's  all  over — though  I  curse 
myself  at  intervals  for  having  disturbed  her  life. 

CoL.  D.  Well,  she's  got  over  it  pretty  quickly. 
[Hamilton  looks  up.]     You  don't  seem  to  know? 

Hamil.     What? 

CoL.   D.     She's   going  to  marry  that  boy. 


HAMrLTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       81 

Hamil.  You  mean  Armitage?  [Sound  of  dis- 
may.']    Well,  he*s  a  lucky  chap. 

Col.  D.  Am  not  sure  that  I  agree  with  you, 
I  was  rather  disgusted  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
might  have  waited  a  year,  at  least. 

Hamil.  My  dear  Dempster,  she's  the  sweet- 
est girl  on  earth.  A  heart's  often  caught  in  the 
rebound.  I  am  glad  that  I  didn't  cost  her  as 
much  as  I  feared.  [Pause.']  I  don't  feel  sure 
that  at  the  back  of  her  head  or  the  back  of  her 
heart,  she  wasn't  always  in  love  with  him — but 
nothing  occurred  to  make  her  aware  of  it,  till 
I   upset   her  peace. 

Col.  D.  Well,  I  must  say  I  thought  she  was 
fond  of  you  from  the  look  of  matters. 

Hamil.  She  was.  And  she's  a  clever  girl, 
or  thinks  herself  one,  and  she  liked  talking  to  a 
man  a  good  deal  older  than  herself,  liked  win- 
ning him.  She  was  probably  a  little  bit  in  love 
with  the  situation,  and  a  good  deal  more  with  her 
own  splendid  courage  and  compassion. 

CoL,  D.  Humph.  Where  do  the  splendid 
courage  and  compassion  come  in.'' 

Hamil.  Compassion  for  the  mull  I'd  made 
of  my  life — courage  when  she'd  reasoned  it  out 
with  herself  and  took  me  in  spite  of  all  the 
prejudice  against  divorce  in  which  she  had  been 
brought  up — and   the   opposition   of  the   mother. 


82       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Col.  D.     She  should  have  stuck  to  you. 

Hamil.  She  would,  but  for — what  happened. 
I  perfectly  understand  her  point  of  view. 

CoL.  D.  Well,  I  don't — I  dined  there  a  fort- 
night ago.  Am  glad  to  say  I  wasn't  put  next 
the  young  lady,  or  I  mightn't  have  been  very 
agreeable. 

Hamil.     I  wonder  if  she  ever  thinks  of  me? 

CoL.  D.  I'm  coming  to  that.  After  we  went 
upstairs,  she  managed  to  get  me  into  a  corner, 
and  asked  after  you. 

Hamil.     What  did  she  say? 

Col.  D.  Wanted  to  know  when  you  were  com- 
ing home. 

Hamil.     Anything  else? 

CoL.  D.  Said  she'd  give  the  world  if  some 
happiness  would  come  to  you. 

Hamil.  {^Sound  of  derision.]  One  doesn't 
get  that  very  often — doesn't  matter!  I  shall 
take  the  makeshifts  and  get  along,  I  daresay. 
Anything  else? 

CoL.  D.  She  told  me — I  think  she  must  have 
meant  me  to  say  it  to  you,  somehow — that  now 
she  couldn't  marry  anybody  else — but  Guy — 
she'd  known  him  always 

Hamil.  [A  little  cynically.]  That's  it — de- 
pend upon  it  she  cares  for  him  more  than  she 
imagines.      Thank  God  she  does. 

CoL.   D.     Callender  told  me  the  boy  had   al- 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       83 

ways  been  devoted  to  her.  It  seems  he  started 
for  Japan  directly  he  heard  she  was  going  to 
marry  you,  started  back  the  moment  he  heard 
she  wasn't. 

Hamil.  Nothing  like  promptness  in  these 
matters. 

Col.  D.  l^Looking  round.^  Why,  you  have 
got  an  evening  paper — there's  a  paragraph — the 
announcement 

Hamil.  ^Makes  a  quick  mvoluntary  move- 
ment forward,  then  hack.]  Plenty  of  time — I'll 
look  at  it  presently. 

Col.  D.  I  must  be  going.  {^Gets  m^.]  Only 
looked  in  to  make  sure  you  were  here. 

Hamil.  [^Hesitatingly.']  Have  you  seen  or 
heard  anything  of — of — Juliet? 

CoL.  D.     Only  what  Callender  told  me. 

Hamil.     Callender  ? 

Col.  D.  It  seems  he  w.nt  round  the  next  morn- 
ing. He  admired  her  and  wanted  to  say  some- 
thing kind,  I  believe.  He's  a  soft-hearted  old 
man — she  had  vanished — completely.  The  school 
is  sold — a  man  called  Johnson  runs  it  now. 

Hamil.     I  knew  that. 

Col.  D.  [Half  afraid,  and  rvith  a  touch  of 
tenderness.]  She  was  a  wonderful  creature,  I 
shall  never  forget  her — [Stops  abruptly.] 

Hamil.  I  wish  you'd  come  up  the  Nile  with 
me. 


84>      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Col.  D.  Wish  I  could,  my  dear  fellow,  but 
there's  no  chance  of  it.  Perhaps  I'll  meet  you 
on  the  way  back  in  April — I  must  be  off.  Shall 
we  dine  together  to-morrow? 

Hamil.     Should  like  it. 

Col.  D.     Good.     United  Service  at  eight. 

Hamil.  [Fidgeting  with  a  cigarette,  and  try- 
ing not  to  look  eager. \  Do  you  know  when  the 
marriage  is  to  be? 

Col.  D.     In  a  fortnight. 

Hamil.     Ah!     I  shan't  be  here. 

CoL.  D.     Off  so  soon? 

Hamil.  [Nods.']  I  can't  stand  this  climate, 
and  a  wandering  life  suits  me. 

Col.    D.      Well — to-morrow.  [Exit. 

Hamilton    goes    with    him,    returns    in    a 
moment,    shuts    the    door,    seizes     the 
paper,  searches  for  paragraph. 
Enter   Becker. 

Hamil.  [Sits  down  at  writing-table.']  Oh,  did 
I  ring,  I  did  so  inadvertently,  but  since  you  are 
here  you  may  as  well  know — that  I  am  going 
away  even  sooner  than  I  had  intended — the  end 
of  next  week  at  latest. 

Becker.  Yes,  sir.  That  lady  I  told  you  about 
has   called   again,  sir. 

Hamil.      Tell    her    the    house    is    sold — I    am 
sorry — if  she  wanted  it. 
Enter  very  softly,  behind  Becker^  Madame  Bun- 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       85 

SEN.      Hamilton's    bacJc    is    turned.      He   is 

busy  with  his  letters,  etc. 

Becker.      [Embarrassed,   but   mahing   the   best 

of  it.^      Mrs.  Enfield  would  like  to  see  you,  sir. 

[Madame  Bunsen  signs  to  Becker  to  go. 

Hamil.     I   can't  see   her  Becker — or  any  one. 

Say  I  am  sorry  the  house  is  sold. 

[But  Becker  has  gone,  the  door  is  shut. 
Madame  Bunsen  is  standing  a  few  feet 
inside  the  door.  [Pause. 

Madame  B.     Maur — ice. 

[Hamilton  gives  a  start,  looks  round  and 
rises   quickly. 
Hamil.     You  ! 
Madame  B.     Yes,  I. 
Hamil.     How  did  you  get  here? 
Madame    B.      I    called    myself,    Mrs.    Enfield, 
and  followed  the  servant  in.     I  had  to  see  you. 
I  must  speak  to  you. 

[While  she  speaks,  he  retreats  a  little  to 

the    other    side    of    the    fireplace    and 

stands  where  Colonel  Dempster  had 

sat. 

Hamil.      I    have    no   wish    to   see    you — or   to 

speak  to  you. 

Madame    B.      [Entreating,   but  firm.']      But   I 

must — I  must  speak 

Hamil.    You  will  be  good  enough  to  go.     [Puts 
out  his  hand  to  ring  the  bell  which  is  on  the  left."] 


86      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Ids  he  does  so,  she  springs  forward. 

Madame  B..   No!     Not  yet! 

[He,  as  if  to  escape  her  touch,  retreats  a 
little  to  the  right  with  a  shrinking 
movement. 
There  is  fair  play  for  every  one — even  for  me, 
and  you  must  let  me  speak.  You  won't  let  me 
write  to  you.  I  went  to  the  lawyers,  the  letters 
are  there  unopened. 

Hamil.  There  is  nothing  to  write  about.  It 
is  no  good  trying  to  varnish  over  the  facts.  You 
have  destroyed  my  chances  of  happiness  twice 
over,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said — about  anything. 

Madame  B.  If  I  have  destroyed  it  three  times, 
it  is  no  reason  for  my  being  treated  with  in- 
justice.    I  want  you  to  listen — are  you  afraid.^ 

Hamil.     Afraid  .f* 

Madame  B.  [Scornfully.]  Yes,  afraid — you 
must  be — if  you  will  neither  open  my  letters  nor 
hear  what  I  have  to  say. 

Hamil.  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  put  it 
into  three  words — and  then  be  good  enough  to 
go. 

Madame  B.  You  say  I  destroyed  your  happi- 
ness twice 

Hamil.  We  needn't  go  into  the  first  occasion; 
on  the  second  you  destroyed  all  that,  after  years 
of  isolation  and  bitterness,  seemed  to  be  in 
sight. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       87 

Madame  B.  [Amazed.]  You  think  I  went  to 
her  on  purpose? 

Hamil.  You  went  [with  a  shrug]  and  the  re- 
sult you  know,  of  course. 

Madame  B.  [Breathlessly.]  I  went,  but — 
Maurice — I  had  no  idea — I  did  not  dream — of — 
what  was  going  on.  I  did  not  even  know  you 
were  in  London — or  in  England — I  did  not  know 
where  you  were. 

Hamil.  You  could  easily  have  discovered — 
this  is  nonsense. 

Madame  B.  [Scornfully.]  You  are  insulting 
— as  one  would  expect  a  man  to  be  who  will 
neither  hear  one — nor  read  one's  letters.  Listen! 
I  never  came  across  your  name.  I  know  now 
that  it  was  printed  oi'ten,  in  connection  with 
political  things,  but  I  never  read  political  things. 
I  knew  nothing — nothing — about  you.  Two 
years  ago,  when  I  came  back  to  England,  I  tried 
to  find  out  where  you  were.  I  went  to  Worcester 
— and  stayed  at  the  little  inn  near  your  sister's 
house. 

Hamil.     The  Forester — yes. 

Madame  B.  I  heard  that  you  were  in  South 
America — I  thought  London  was  safe  to  me — 
that  probably  you  were  never  coming  back.  I 
started  the  riding-school — it  was  the  only  thing 
I  could  do,  and  called  myself  **  Madame  Bun- 
sen."     I  knew  no  one — made  no  acquaintance — I 


88       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

spoke  with  the  pupils,  but  that  was  all.  I  liked 
that  fair  girl — something  drew  me  to  her — I  think 
she  liked  me — because  I  took  pains  with  her  rid- 
ing, perhaps.  One  day  she  brought  me  some 
flowers   from  her  garden — her  mother  sent  them. 

Hamil.  \_Cynically.'\  Her  mother! — I  remem- 
ber. 

Madame  B.  Her  father  came  sometimes  to 
look  on  at  her.  And  Mr.  Armitage  with  his  sis- 
ter— they   were   all   friends   together 

Hamil.  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Why 
did  you  discover  yourself  to  Miss  Callender?  I 
should  have  had  to  tell  her — ^but 

Madame  B.  [Not  allowing  him  to  finish.]  I 
went  about  a  mare — that  one  of  the  pupils  wanted 
to  sell — a  girl  who  was  going  away — she  had  tele- 
graphed. Miss  Callender  told  me  she  had  given 
up  the  riding  lessons  because  she  was  going  to 
be  married.  I  congratulated  her,  thinking  that  it 
was  Mr.  Armitage.  She  said,  "  No,  it  was  Mr. 
Maurice  Hamilton."  I  had  not  heard  the  name 
spoken  except  by  my  own  lips  for  years — it  went 
to  my  heart  like  a  sword.  It  forced  a  cry  from 
me — I  betrayed  myself.  And  then  you  entered 
— I  remember  nothing  more.  Oh!  [With  a  pas- 
sionate shudder  of  pain.] 

Hamil.  Thank  you  for  explaining  it — I  am 
glad  to  know.     [Goes  towards  the  hell.] 

Madame   B.     Stop,  Maurice — once  more.     We 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       89 

shall  never  meet  again,  I  will  take  care  of  that; 
there  is  no  occasion  to  be  brutal. 

Hamil.     I  have  no  wish  to  be  brutal. 

Madame  B.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
wouldn't  have  done  it  had  I  known,  I  would  rather 
have  died.  I  have  nearly  died  since,  I  think, 
with  the  misery,  the  madness,  the  knowledge  that 
I  had  again  destroyed  your  life.  1  must  have 
been  sent  into  the  world  to  do  it — twice  over — 
and  each  time  not  knowing  it. 

Hamil.  [Bitterli/.^  You  must  have  known  the 
first  time  pretty  well. 

Madame  B.  [Impetuously.']  Oh,  that's  be- 
cause you  don't  understand — men  cry  out  when 
women  do  this  or  that,  but  they  never  see  how 
they  have  helped 

Hamil.  Helped!  [Sound  of  impatience.] 
What  you  did  needed  little  understanding  to  make 
it  plain. 

Madame  B.  [Bitterly.]  And  even  that  you 
hadn't — you  were  always  dense — you  are  now — 
you  never  had  much  passion  in  you — you  never 
set  your  love  for  me  above  all  else  in  life — or 
things  would  not  have  happened  as  they  did. 

Hamil.  This  is  rather  a  strange  charge  and 
the  last  I  should  have  thought  you  could  bring 
against  me — remembering  how  I  was  carried  away 
by  my  love  for  you 

Madame    B.     And   yet   you   couldn't   make   it 


90       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

strong  enough  to  hold  me.  When  you  married 
me,  I  was  nineteen — I  had  known  you  one  month 
— not  a  month.  How  was  I  to  know  your  ways — 
or  the  manner  in  which  you  expressed  yourself? 
My  father  was  my  mother's  lover  till  the  hour 
he  died — he  lived  at  her  feet — she  had  lovers  al- 
ways, all  her  life — I  grew  up  among  them,  and 
to  be  a  woman  and  not  loved — not  loved  enough — 
seemed  terrible! 

Hamil.  Not  loved  enough!  [Amazed.'\  Why, 
from  the  moment  I  saw  you  first — I  adored  you. 

Madame  B.  For  a  month,  the  month  before 
we  were  married,  you  lived  for  me;  you  brought 
me  flowers  and  jewels  and  sweets,  and  the  first 
days  of  marriage  you  loved  me — you  loved  me. 
[Passionatelt/.'\  I  felt  it.  But  before  we  were 
at  the  end  of  the  voyage  you  had  changed  a  little. 

Hamil.  I  had  not  changed — I  was  going  out 
to  my  post — there  were  things  I  had  to  think  of 
— I  had  my  work,  you  were  too  young  to  be  in- 
terested in  it. 

Madame  B.  I  know,  but  I  didn't  want  you 
to  think  of  anything  but  me,  I  wanted  you  to 
be  my  lover  always.  I  will  tell  you  something — 
I  did  not  love  you  very  much  when  you  married 
me — I'd  known  you  but  a  little  while — but  it  was 
natural  to  be  married,  and  I  was  flattered  and 
pleased.  Three  months  afterwards  I  could  have 
died  for  love  of  you.     There  came  suspicion  and 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       91 

jealousy — my  father's  Italian  blood,  perhaps,  that 
rose  and  mastered  me 

Hamil.     Suspicious  and  jealous  of  me? 

Madame  B.  Yes.  Jealous  of  everything  that 
took  you  from  me — suspicious  of  your  absences. 
You  expected  me  to  take  your  love  for  granted, 
it  maddened  me  that  you  could  bear  me  out  of 
your    sight — that   you   sent   me    away    from   you. 

Hamil.  You  mean  that  I  sent  you  up  to  Simla? 
It  was  impossible  to  keep  you  down  in  the  heat. 

Madame  B.  But  I  would  have  borne  the  heat 
— wanted  you  only  to  think  of  me — of  having 
me  with  you — ^with  you  though  it  killed  me — ^that 
is  what  a  woman  likes.  And  when  you  came  you 
were  not  impatient  enough — not  jealous  of  all  the 
men  who  hung  about  me — and  I  wanted  you  to 
be.  Out  of  your  sight  no  one  had  a  word  or 
look  from  me.  But  when  you  came  I  was  des- 
perate and  wanted  to  make  you  see  that  you  must 
love  me — guard  me — ^think  of  me — but  you  didn't 
care,  you  didn't  care  enough. 

Hamil.  I  never  dreamt  of  all  this.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  Mrs.  Sinclair? — she  would  have 
told  you 

Madame  B.  I  was  too  proud.  I  was  so  young 
and  undisciplined,  and  it's  her  heart  that  governs 
such  a  girl  as  I  was.  Why  didn't  you  know — 
then  you  would  have  held  me?  Why  did  you 
trust  me  so? 


92      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Hamil.  Is  a  man  not  to  trust  the  woman  who 
is  his  wife? 

Madame  B.  Not  a  girl  of  my  temperament. 
You  took  an  exotic  and  sent  it  to  a  place  where 
all  the  sights  and  sounds  nourished  it.  And  you 
were  so  calm — oh!  that  calmness  drove  me  mad — 
so  certain  you  were  safe.  It  didn't  occur  to  you 
to  assure  yourself  that  you  were,  or  to  make  me 
swear  every  day  that  I  was  the  same.  When  one 
is  young  as  I  was,  nothing  in  the  world  matters 
but  love — I  thought  that  nothing  else  should  exist 
— I  thought  that  if  I  made  you  jealous  it  would 
rouse  you — that  was  how  it  all  began.  Archie 
Farence  was  reckless,  and  loved  me,  I  wanted  you 
to  see  that  he  did — but  you  were  blind  and  saw 
nothing.  He  told  me  that  you  didn't  care — that 
you  couldn't — couldn't 

Hamil.  This  is  amazing — this  state  of  mind — 
it  never  entered  my  head — I  thought  you  knew 
that  I  was  devoted  to  you — I  worked  chiefly  to 
givie  you  the  things  that  would  make  you  happy 
— and  I  trusted  you. 

Madame  B.  Yes,  you  trusted  me — ^too  much — 
nineteen — and  half  Southern.  .  .  .  Do  you 
remember  the  last  time  you  came  to  Simla?  You 
were  so  preoccupied  you  forgot  to  bring  the  neck- 
lace you  had  taken  away  to  have  mended,  before 
the  dance  at  the  Whartons' — it  was  another  proof 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       93 

of  how  little  you  thought  of  me  while  you  were 
absent.  I  don't  know  how  it  came  about — I 
swear  I  don't,  Maurice.  It  seemed  as  if  taunting 
fiends  gathered  about  me  that  night — and  you 
were  so  cold  and  preoccupied,  you  sat  at  your 
table  writing,  sheet  after  sheet — I  longed  to  tear 
them  into  strips 

Hamil.  There  had  been  two  cases  of  cholera, 
and  I  was  anxious  about  you — didn't  want  you 
to  know   how   anxious 

Madame  B.  [With  a  cry.']  Oh!  If  I  had 
guessed — how   could   I?      But   you  said 

Hamil.     Well? 

Madame  B.  You  said  you  would  come  on  to 
the  Whartons'  and  you  didn't.  Farence  was  there 
adoring  me.  There  was  one  moment  in  the  gar- 
den, after  a  dance,  when  he  stooped  and  kissed 
the  ground  I  had  stood  on.  [Turns  away.]  The 
end  of  it  was  that  I  went  off  with  him.  It  was 
half  done  from  longing  to  make  you  jealous,  to 
make  you  suffer.  Oh!  If  I  could  make  you  feel 
for  a  single  minute  the  storm  that  raged  in  my 
heart.  The  man  who  was  with  me  was  intoxi- 
cated with  passion,  was  jealous  if  he  suspected 
I  was  thinking  of  you.  He  told  me  he  would 
strangle  me  if  I  even  looked  at  another  man — that 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  real  thing — but  I  only  took 
it  from  him  because  you  had  not  given  it  me. 


94       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Hamil.  And  you  mean  that  you  did  not  even 
leave  me  for  a  man  you  loved  better? 

Madame  B.  As  God  lives,  no,  Maurice,  I  left 
you  on  an  impulse,  an  hour's  desperate  reign  of 
one  passion  in  a  hurricane  of  many  passions, 
and  before  the  day  came  when  as  a  matter  of 
honour  he  married  me,  I  was  the  most  miserable 
woman  in  the  world. 

Hamil.  He  loved  you  after  your  own  fashion 
at  any  rate. 

Madame  B.  No,  not  even  that.  There  came 
an  awful  awakening,  it  made  me  shudder — it 
made  me  loathe  him — ^long  before  he  left  me. 

Hamil.     He  left  you! 

Madame  B.  I  drove  him  away — I  shrank  from 
him — and  oh,  the  peace  of  the  day  he  went — 
and  I  was  thankful  for  the  beggary  that  came 

Hamil.     Beggary?     That  too! 

Madame  B.  Yes.  And  pain  and  misery  of 
every  sort.  But  not  vice,  Maurice,  I  kept  clear 
of  that.  I  have  loved  no  man  but  you,  and  sinned 
only  with  that  other.  As  God  in  Heaven  lives  I 
swear  that  to  you. 

Hamil.  Why  didn't  you  take  the  money  I  tried 
to  settle  on  you  at  the  time  of  the  divorce? 

Madame  B.  That  would  have  been  the  last 
depth  of  all. 

Hamil.     Did  Farence  do  nothing  for  you? 

Madame  M.  [With  a  shudder.']     I  sent  it  back 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       95 

— I  was  only  an  incident — that  was  part  of  my 
degradation.  His  friends  forgave  him — men  are 
often   forgiven — women   never 

Hamil.  It  must  be  so.  It  may  be  cruel,  but 
it  has  to  be.  We  put  them  so  high — that  when  a 
woman  sins  it  is  the  betrayal  of  a  Christ — and 
even  the  man  who  is  the  Judas  can't  forgive  her. 

Madame  B.     I  know — I  know. 

Hamil.     Where  were  you  when  Farence  died? 

Madame  B.  In  Australia.  I  never  saw  him 
again.     He  died  in  England. 

Hamil.     And  what  did  you  do  all  those  years? 

Madame  B.  I  nearly  starved  at  first.  I  was 
ill — broken  [shuddering]  and  in  the  Melbourne 
hospital  for  months.  There  was  a  horse-dealer's 
wife  in  the  bed  next  to  mine — when  I  was  better, 
she  made  her  husband  hire  me  to  ride  the  horses 
he  wanted  to  sell.  It  was  the  only  thing  I  could 
do  and  I  liked  it.  The  quick  movement — ^the  long 
gallops  into  the  bush — the  mystery  I  was  to  them, 
for  they  knew  nothing.  That  was  how  the  years 
went  by.  At  last  I  could  bear  it  no  longer — I 
had  saved  some  money,  it  brought  me  to  Eng- 
land. I  crept  to  the  inn  at  Worcester  and  asked 
for  you,  as  I  told  you.  My  mother  had  died — 
refusing  to  forgive  me — but  she  left  me  what  she 
had — little  enough — I  saw  an  advertisement  of  a 
riding-school  and  bought  it,  and  suddenly  pros- 
perity came. 


96      HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

Hamil.  [Gently.]  I'm  glad  to  have  heard  this 
— and  I  am  sorry  for  all  you  have  suffered. 
[Takes  a  step  as  if  going  forward  to  the  bell,] 
I  wish  we  had  both  been  different. 

Madame  B.  [Despairingly,  going  between  him 
and  the  bell,]  Once  more — not  yet.  Oh!  Mau- 
rice, these  minutes  are  the  last  we  shall  ever  have 
together. 

Hamil.  Why  did  you  come  to-day,  and  why 
have  you  been  trying  to  see  me  all  these 
months  ? 

Madame  B.  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer — 
I  felt  I  must  see  you — ^just  once  more.  I  knew 
all  that  you  had  thought  me — I  wanted  to  make 
it  plain — to  show  you  how  it  had  been,  to — ^to 
make  you  hate  me  less 

Hamil.  I  don't  hate  you — you  poor  child.  .  . 
The  crooked  deed  always  sows  pain  and  misery. 
You  have  reaped  it  and  I  have  not  escaped.  Prob- 
ably you  thought  as  I  did  that  peace  had  come, 
till  the  day  we  met — in  that  room  that  looked  over 
the  garden. 

Madame  B.  I  would  have  given  worlds  not  to 
have  gone.  I  should  have  died  if  you  had  mar- 
ried  her,   but   I   wouldn't   have   prevented   it 

Hamil.     You  died,  if  I  had  married  her! 

Madame  B.  Yes — died — died,  I  think.  For  all 
these  years,  even  in  the  first  mad  one  in  which  I 
left  you,  I've  loved  you — that  has  been  my  pun- 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       97 

ishment,  my  harvest — ^to  see  your  figure  clear  and 
distinct  in  the  distance  before  me,  and  to  know 
I  should  never  reach  it,  to  know  that  some  day 
you  would  give  all  that  I  had  left — to  another 
woman.  I  knew  it  must  come,  and  I  have  tor- 
tured myself  imagining  her — fair  and  good,  and 
all  that  I  was  not — I  have  seen  your  face  turned 
towards  her  and  heard  your  whispers  without  be- 
ing able  to  catch  the  words,  and  I've  killed  her  in 
my  thoughts — and  put  my  face  against  yours  and 
my  arms  where  hers  had  been,  and  love  for  me — 
not  for  her — ^but  for  me — into  your  heart  again. 
A  maddening  dream  of  joy — I  have  clenched  my 
hands  and  locked  my  teeth  to  keep  the  cry  of  mis- 
ery from  my  lips  when  it  was  over — [Change  of 
manner.']  I  didn't  mean  to  betray  all  this  but 
I  am  glad  I  have  said  it — it  has  come.  You  shall 
never  see  me  again — or  hear — or  know.  [^Tahes 
up  a  wrap  which  she  had  left  on  chair J\ 

Hamil.  [Who  is  carried  away  by  her  passion.] 
Juliet!     Is  all  that  you  have  said  the  truth? 

l^Goes  towards  her  as  she  turns  to  go. 

Madame  B.  I've  never  lied  to  you,  Maurice; 
even  I  have  not  done  that. 

Hamil.  You  mean  that  you  have  loved  me 
all  these  years? 

Madame  B.  [In  a  low,  tragic  voice.]  All  these 
years  and  every  day  of  them.  You  cannot  say 
that  you  have  loved  me — as  I  would  you  if  you 


98       HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE 

had  left  me.  You  went  to  the  fair  girl — and 
loved  her 

Hamil.     Yes — I  loved  her. 

Madame  B.     I  know — I  saw  her  and  felt  it. 

Hamil.  She  was  the  expression  to  me  of  all 
that  once  I  had  imagined  you  would  be  when  you 
were  a  little  older. 

Madame  B.     No — no 

Hamil.  And  from  deep  down  in  my  heart, 
buried  in  bitterness  and  misery,  often  your  face — 
as  I  saw  it  first — looked  up  at  me. 

Madame   B.     Oh — no — no. 

Hamil.     She^s  going  to  marry  another  man. 

Madame  B.     And  you — are  miserable. 

Hamil.  No,  I'm  not  miserable — it  is  over — it 
seems  to  have  vanished — and  all  the  other  mem- 
ories have  come  rushing  back.  Juliet!  My  poor 
whirlwind — my  little  lover — I  used  to  call  you 
that  in  the  first  month — I  wish  things  had  been 
different — with  all  my  heart  I  wish  it. 

Madame  B.  I  would  give  my  life — my  every 
hope  of  heaven  to  have  them  so — or  if  you  had 
left  me,  for  then  I  would  have  forgiven  you,  and 
loved  you  more — because  of  the  days  I  didn't 
dare  remember.     Ah!  let  me  go 

Hamil.     No — ^no 

Madame  B.     I  can't  bear  it  any  longer. 

Hamil.  [Springing  forward.]  You  shall  never 
go  if  I  can  help  it.  I  am  longing  to  take  you  back. 


HAMILTON'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE       99 

Madame  B.  [Bewilder edJ]  You  forgive  me? 

Hamil.  Forgive  you?  It's  your  forgiveness  I 
want,  for  my  blindness,  my  seeming  coldness — 
give  it  me — give  it  me — shall  we  put  it  all  be- 
hind us,  and  start  out  across  a  new  world?  How 
could  you  think  I  didn't  love  you  enough — you 
were  so  beautiful.  Could  you  bear  with  me  again? 
Shall  we  have  another  marriage-day,  and  begin 
life  once  more  together? 

Madame  B.  Oh!  no,  no — I  could  bear  the 
misery,  the  shame  even — but  such  joy  as  that 
would  kill  me 

Hamil.  You  shall  live  for  it  in  my  arms.  [Puts 
them  round  her.]  There  is  a  harvest  from  suffer- 
ing too — a  harvest  of  peace. 

Madame  B.  [Looking  up  at  him  dazed.]  For 
the  dead — only  for  the  dead 

Hamil.  For  the  living  sometimes.  Juliet — 
JuHet! 

Curtain. 


THOMAS  AND   THE    PRINCESS 

A    PLAY   IN    FOUR   ACTS 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 

Thomas  Lobb,  a  boy  (afterwards  Robert  Vallide) 

Robert  Vallide  (formerly  Thomas  Lobb) 

Robert  Vallide,  Senr.,   his  uncle 

Earl  of  Barnstaple,  past  middle  age 

Geoff,  Lord  Stratton   (in  the  Guards),  his  son 

Sir  James  Caxton 

Colonel  Endsleigh,  Indian  Staff  Corps 

Sir  George   Fison,  a  famous  doctor 

Lady  Sarah  Stratton,  Lord  Barnstaple's  sister 
Lady  Ida,  his  daughter 
Lady  Caxton   (Julia),  his  niece 
The  Hon.  Mrs.  Murison,  another  niece 
May  Murison,  her  daughter  (a  little  girl  of  six 
at  first,  not  seen  then) 
Servants,  &c. 


ACT  J.,  ENGLAND. 
TIME:  Seventeen  years  ago. 

SCENE:  (Interior)  A  drawing-room  in  Harford 
Terrace,  Regent's  Park. 

ACT  II.,  ITALY. 

TIME:  Present  day.     Afternoon. 

SCENE:  {Interior)  Sitting-room  in  Lord  Barn- 
staple's Villa  at  Alassio  on  the  Italian 
Riviera. 

ACT  III.,  ITALY. 

TIME:  Ten  days  later.    Late  afternoon. 

SCENE:   (Exterior)   Garden  of  the  Villa. 

ACT  IV.,  ENGLAND. 
TIME:  Three  weeks  later. 

SCENE:  (Interior)  A  sitting-room  on  Campden 
HilL  TV, 


ACT  I 

Time. — Seventeen  years  ago,  about  noon,  on  a 
spring  day. 

Scene. — Interior.  Mrs.  Murison's  house  in  Har- 
ford Terrace,  Regent's  Park.  Drawing-room 
rvell  furnished,  refined.  Windorvs  at  hack 
(not  down  to  the  ground)  showing  tops  of 
trees,  so  as  to  suggest  that  the  room  is  on 
the  first  floor.     Fireplace  on  r.j  door  on  L. 

When  Curtain  draws  up  Lady  Sarah  is  dis- 
covered on  chair  r.  near  the  fire.  She  is 
middle-aged,  handsome,  and  distinguished- 
looking,  rather  mannered. 

Near  centre  of  stage,  Mrs.  Murison,  about 
twenty-six,  a  pretty,  graceful  woman,  with 
a  sweet  but  rather  stiff  manner,  is  talk- 
ing with  Sir  George  Fison,  a  celebrated 
doctor:  they  are  both  standing, 

Mrs.  M.  I  can  never  thank  you  enough.  Sir 
George. 

Sir  G.  My  dear  lady,  I  am  delighted  to  think 
the  results  have  not  disappointed  us — I  know 
what   the   child   is    to   you 

Mrs.   M.     Just  my  life 

105 


106     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lady  S.  [Sharply.]  More  than  either  of  the 
other  two  children;  and  then,  you  know,  Doctor 
— I  keep  forgetting,  I  mean  Sir  George — I  did 
congratulate  you? 

Sir  G.     You  did,  thank  you  very  much 

Lady  S.     And  then  it's  her  first  child. 

Sir  G.  I  know.  And  the  father  away,  fight- 
ing for  his  country.  [To  Mrs.  M.]  I  hope  you've 
good  news? 

Mrs.  M.  None  at  all  for  the  last  few  days; 
but  he  was  safe  then. 

Sir  G.  Letters,  of  course,  are  difficult — 
though  the  War  Office  does  all  it  can. 

Mrs.  M.  We  owed  so  much  to  Gordon.  And 
he  wants  to  help  to  carry  out  his  work  in  Egypt. 

Sir  G.     Well,  we  are  doing  great  things  there 
You  must  hope  for  the  best. 
Keep  the  child  out  of  doors  as  much  as  possible. 

Mrs.  M.     I  told  nurse  to  wrap  her  up  well. 

Sir  G.  Quite  right.  You  are  fortunate  in 
having  this  park  at  your  front  door. 

Mrs.  M.  I  stand  at  the  window  and  watch 
them  half  a  mile  away  sometimes. 

Sir  G.  Ah!  [Smiling.]  It's  lucky  for  chil- 
dren that  they  have  mothers. 

[While  they  are  speaking  Thomas  enters 
with  a  scuttleful  of  coals,  which  he  puts 
down  hy  the  fireplace.  He  is  about  ten, 
dressed  in  tidy  but  poor  clothes,  wears 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     107 

a  working  apron,  and  has  a  refined,  deli- 
cate little  face.  Sir  George  looks  at 
Mm  as  he  passes.  Thomas  touches  his 
forelock.      Exit. 

Sir  G.  [About  to  go.]  Nice  face  that  boy  has. 
Does  not  look  very  strong  though.  [Shakes 
hands.']  Glad  to  have  seen  yon  again,  Lady 
Sarah.     I  hope  Lady  Barnstaple  is  better? 

Lady  S.  I've  not  seen  her  lately;  I've  been 
staying  at  Hampton  Court  with  my  sister. 

Sir  G.  Oh,  yes — Lady  Caroline  Lismore. 
[To  Mrs.  M.]  Your  mother.  I  remember  that 
she  went  there  after  her  husband  died.  I  hope 
she  is  not  quite  ^lone.'* 

Lady  S.  Oh,  no;  she  has  a  niece,  poor  Claude's 
child — Julia — who  is  eighteen  now.  Perhaps  you 
don't  remember  her? 

Sir  G.  Dear  me,  yes,  I  do.  Her  parents  died 
in  India.  .  .  .  Well,  good-bye.  [Turns 
hack.]  By  the  way,  you  didn't  tell  me  how  Lady 
Barnstaple  was? 

Lady  S.  Not  at  all  well.  My  brother  has 
bought  a  villa  at  Alassio,  on  the  Italian  Riviera, 
for  her. 

Sir  G.  Humph!  I'm  sorry  .  .  .  The 
children  are  well,  I  hope — GeoiFrey  and  Ida, 
isn't  it?  .  .  .  Lord  Barnstaple  is  making  a 
great  name  in  the  political  world.  [To  Mrs.  M.] 
Send  for  me  if  anything  goes  wrong. 


108     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Mrs.  M.  I  will — and  thank  you — ^thank  you 
for  all  your  kindness. 

Sir  G.     Not  at  all. 

[Exit  Sir  George.    Mrs.  M.  rings  the  bell. 

Lady  S.     Well,  Evelyn,  that  anxiety  is  over. 

Mrs.  M.  I  hope  so.  [Rings  again.Ji  Thomas 
must  be  told  not  to  come  in  when  there  are  visi- 
tors here. 

Enter  Servant. 
[To  Servant.]    Send  Thomas  to  me — as  soon  as 
he  has  filled  the  scuttles.  [Exit  Servant. 

Mrs.  M.  [To  Lady  S.]  He  is  the  son  of  those 
poor  people  who  had  charge  of  the  empty  house 
next  door;  do  you  remember? 

Lady  S.  Oh,  yes,  you  made  Turner  cut  off  a 
great  many  slices  of  roast  mutton  for  them  when 
I  was  here  six  months  ago,  and  had  them  sent, 
too  before  you  ate  your  own. 

Mrs.  M.  Poor  things,  they  were  hungry — and 
needed  a  great  many.  Father  and  mother,  and 
Thomas  and  Polly,  and  the  poor  skinny  baby 
that  died. 

Lady  S.  A  good  thing  it  did,  my  dear,  if  it 
was  skinny — it  wouldn't  always  have  had  you  to 
send  it  roast  mutton.  [Evidently  anxious  to  dis- 
miss the  subject.]  They  were  country  people, 
you  said 

Mrs.  M.  The  father  was  a  Cornish  man.  He 
had  been  a  carpenter,  I  think.     I  saw  him  one 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     109 

night  warming  his  thin  hands  by  the  fire,  and  the 
next  day  when  I  went  to  see  him  he  was  dead — • 
I  put  the  flowers  I  had  taken  at  his  feet. 

Lady  S.  [Indifferently.]  Poor  man!  Better 
off,  no  doubt.  And  has  the  widow  found  another 
empty  house  to  take  care  of? 

Mrs.  M.  No,  she  does  a  little  charing,  and 
we  bought  her  a  mangle;  Polly  goes  to  a  board 
school,  and  Thomas  carries  out  newspapers  for 
the  stationer  round  the  corner,  but  as  that's  over 
at  eight  in  the  morning,  and  I  wanted  a  boy  to 
clean   knives   and  boots,   and  carry  up   coals 

Lady  S.  You  sent  for  Thomas. 

Mrs.  M.  He  is  such  a  good  boy  and  he  adores 
May 

Lady    S.    ^Impatiently.]      Of   course    he    does 

but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  your 

mother.      I   have   hurried  up   to   town   because   I 

have   no    patience   with   her — I    never    had   much 

without  her  perhaps   you  will  say. 

Mrs.  M.  Dear  Aunt  Sarah,  I  wouldn't  be  so 
rude;  besides  I  love  your  impatience. 

Enter  Thomas.  He  touches  his  forelock  and 
stands    by   the   door. 

Lady  S.  [Evidently  angry  at  the  interrup- 
tion.]     Oh 

Mrs.  M.  Come  in,  Thomas.  .  .  .  What  is 
that  bulging  in  your  pocket — why  it  moves! 

Thomas.   [Pleased  and  important.]       It's  some 


no     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

white  mice,  M'm,  for  Miss  May.  Her  brown  one 
died  just  before  she  was  took  ill.  ...  I 
got  these  a  week  ago  and  thought  perhaps  you'd 
let  me  give  *em  to  her  to-day. 

Mrs.  M.     Are  they  loose  in  your  pocket? 

Thomas.  Tied  up  in  a  handkerchief.  But 
I've  mended  the  catch  of  the  cage.  I  am  glad  to 
hear  she's  to  go  out,  M'm. 

Mrs.  M.     How  did  you  know? 

Thomas.  I  went  up  and  asked  nurse,  directly 
after  the  doctor'd  gone  down.  I  thought  he'd 
gone,  M'm,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come  in  with  the 
coals  just  now. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  that  was  it — I  wondered.  Why 
didn't  you  give  Miss  May  the  mice  when  you 
went  up? 

Thomas.  Didn't  like  to  do  that,  M'm,  till  I'd 
asked  you  if  you  didn't  mind 

Mrs.   M.     Oh — how  nice  of  you. 

Thomas.  Thank  you,  M'm.  It's  a  good  thing 
l^with  a  different  sound  in  his  voice^  she's  well; 
isn't  it,  M'm?  [Mrs.  Murison  nods.]  We  were 
scared  that  night,  all  of  us. 

Mrs.  M.     We  were  indeed,  Thomas. 
Well,  go  up  and  give  her  the  mice. 

Thomas.  [With  a  little  triumphant  smile.] 
They're  as  white  as  milk. 

[Touches  his  forelock  to  Lady  S.  and  Mrs.  M. 

[Exit. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     111 

Lady  S.  Nice  boy;  knows  his  place,  and  a 
little  more  human  than  most  children  of  that 
class. 

Mrs.  M.  Human.'*  Oh,  Thomas  is  human  enough. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  night  we  thought  May 
was  going  to  die.  I  believe  he  sat  on  the  steps 
all  through  it.  The  servants  found  him  outside 
the  area  door  at  daylight  half  dead.  They 
dragged  him  in,  and  when  they  told  him  that  the 
crisis  was  over  and  she  might  live,  he  put  his 
head  down  on  the  kitchen  table  and  sobbed — the 
relief  was  too  much.  I  shall  always  remember 
him  when  I  think  of  that  night.  .  .  . 
[Change  of  manner. 1  Well,  what  has  been  hap- 
pening at  Hampton  Court?  You've  been  staying 
with  mother,  I  hear. 

Lady  S.  My  dear  Evelyn,  your  mother  is 
driving  me  out  of  my  mind.  She  is  my  sister, 
so  I  have  a  right  to  say  what  I  think  of  her, 
even  to  you. 

Mrs.  M.  [Amused.]  Yes,  of  course  you  have. 
Aunt   Sarah — go   on. 

Lady  S.     She  is  a  most  worldly  woman. 

Mrs.   M.     But  why  suddenly.^ 

Lady  S.  Young  Endsleigh  has  gone  to  India, 
as  you  probably  know,  without  speaking  to 
Julia 

Mrs.  M.  I  am  certain  they  care  for  each 
other. 


112     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lady  S.  Then  he's  an  idiot  not  to  have  told 
her  so.  And  Julia — a  girl  in  love  is  always  like 
an  ostrich  with  his  head  in  the  sand — has  been 
breaking  her  heart  and  thinks  nobody  knows  it. 

Mrs.  M.  Mother  couldn't  help  his  not  speak- 
ing. 

Lady  S.  I  believe  she  prevented  him — any 
one  could  see  that  he  was  fond  of  Julia — at  any 
rate  he  has  gone^  as  she  intended  him  to  go, 
without  declaring  himself.  And  last  night  the 
poor  child  accepted  Sir  James  Caxton,  that  stupid 
man  who  has  just  got  in  for  Fieldborough. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  no.  Aunt  Sarah — not  Sir 
James  .^     He's  the  dullest  man  in  the  world. 

Lady  S.  He's  an  owl,  but  he's  very  rich  and 
has  no  near  relations. 

Mrs.  M.     He  must  be  forty. 

Lady  S.  I  daresay.  And  depend  upon  it  he'll 
live  to  be  eighty. 

Mrs.  M.     How  did  it  happen? 

Lady  S.  Well,  it  has  been  quite  evident  that 
something  was  in  the  man's  mind,  for  he  went 
down  five  times  in  a  fortnight,  mooned  about, 
and  said  nothing,  stared  at  Julia,  and  went  away 
as  inarticulate  as  he  came.  It's  a  miracle  to  me 
how  such  an  idea  as  marriage  got  into  his  head. 

Mrs.  M.  I  can't  think  why  he  was  returned 
for  Fieldborough. 

Lady  S.     Bribery,  of  course. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     113 

Mrs.  M.  Julia  might  marry  any  one,  and  at 
eighteen  there's  no  hurry. 

Lady  S.  Sir  James  is  very  rich  and  that  ap- 
peals to  your  mother. 

Mrs.  M.  [Thoughtfully.']  And  it's  an  excel- 
lent family  of  course.  .  .  .  Do  you  think 
he's  in  love} 

Lady  S.  My  dear_,  an  owl  doesn't  fall  in  love. 
He  wants  to  arrange  himself  in  life,  and  is  doing 
the  best  he  can — from  an  owl's  point  of  view. 
She'll  run  away  in  a  year  if  Frank  Endsleigh 
comes  back,  and  then  there'll  be  a  pretty  scandal. 

Mrs.   M.     But  why  did  she  accept  him? 

Lady  S.  Your  mother  has  been  telling  her  that 
if  anything  happened  to  her,  she  would  have  to 
go  out  as  a  governess,  or  some  nonsense,  for  of 
course,  the  dear  Queen  only  gave  those  rooms 
at  Hampton  Court  to  your  father's  widow. 

Mrs.  M.     I  know. 

Lady  S.  So  she  persuaded  Julia  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  accept  Sir  James,  and  Julia  is  so 
miserable  that  she  would  marry  anybody,  or 
throw  herself  down  a  well,  or  do  anything  else 
she  was  told.  I  was  extremely  angry  and  came 
away  the  first  thing  this  morning.  At  the  station 
I  telegraphed  to  Sir  James  to  come  and  see  me 
here  at  twelve  o'clock. 

Mrs.  M.  Here?  Aunt  Sarah!  What  are  you 
going  to  do? 


114     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lady  S.  I  shall  not  mince  matters:  but  it's 
twelve  o'clock  now;  so  perhaps  he  won't  come — 
he  is  probably  afraid,  for  my  manner  was  not 
pleasant    last    night — I    made    it    unpleasant. 

Mrs.  M.  That  clock  is  five  minutes  fast.  I 
can't  think  why  mother  hasn't  written  to  me. 

Lady  S.  She's  coming  up  this  afternoon,  with 
Julia — coming  here,  to  surprise  you;  that's  why 
I  did  a  really  desperate  thing,  and  wired  to  the 
man. 

Mrs.  M.     I  am  so  amazed  at  your  courage. 

Lady  S.  I'm  amazed,  my  dear  Evelyn,  that 
you  don't  appear  to  be  shocked  at  your  mother's 
conduct. 

Mrs.  M.  Poor  mother,  the  money  has  dazzled 
her. 

Lady  S.  And  she  has  forgotten  her  own  youth 
— it's  extraordinary  to  me  that  women  do.  I'm 
fifty,  but  I  know  what  it  feels  like  to  be  in  love 
as  well  as  if  I  were  twenty. 

Mrs.  M.  Many  girls  marry  for  money  and 
are  content.  Think  of  Mary  Wallingford,  and 
that  vulgar  millionaire  last  year,  do  you  remem- 
ber.?» 

Lady  S.  Of  course  I  do — Mr.  Ruddock — ^the 
ready-made  clothing  man — but  he  was  clever  at 
any  rate.     Sir  James  is  so  dull. 

Mrs.  M.    [With  a  shudder.]      Yes;  but  it  was 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     115 

worse  than  this —  When  May  grows  up  if  she 
were  to  marry  a  man  like  Mr.   Ruddock 

Enter  Thomas  with  a  telegram  on  a  tray;  he 
stands  unnoticed  for  a  minute  and  listens 
with  wide  open  eyes  at  the  mention  of  May's 
name. 

Lady  S.     Or  like  Sir  James? 

Mrs.  M.  I  would  rather  see  her  married  to 
a  dull  man  like  Sir  James,  than  to  some  new- 
made  millionaire  who  had  been  a  tinker  or  a 
tailor,  perhaps;  and  who,  at  the  back  of  one's 
head,  one  knew  ought  to  be  sitting  with  the 
servants. 

Thomas  [Touching  his  forelock. '\  Telegram, 
M'm. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  I  didn't  see  you,  Thomas,  you 
should  speak.  Wait — perhaps  there's  an  answer. 
[Takes  up  two  telegrams  from  the  tray.l^  One 
for  you.  Aunt  Sarah.  [Hands  it  to  Lady  S.] 
[To  Thomas.]  Why  didn't  Turner  bring  them 
in? 

Thomas.  I  told  her  I  would,  M'm,  'cause 
mother's  here  and  wants  to  know  if  you  can  see 
her  for  a  minute. 

Lady  S.  [Reading  her  telegram.'}  "  With  you 
at   12.15."     He's   coming! 

Mrs.  M.  [Reading  her  telegram.}  Mother  has 
telegraphed  that   she   and   Julia  will  be   here   at 


116     THOMAS   AND    THE    PRINCESS 

four.      [To  Thomas.]      No  answer.     ...     I 
can't  see  your  mother  this  morning. 

[Thomas  touches  his  forelock  and  is  about 
to  go  when  she  says 
Wait  a  minute.     Ask  her  to  go  into  the  dining- 
room  and  wait. 

[Thomas  touches  his  forelock.    Exit. 

Lady  S.  [With  a  grunt.l  H'm;  the  man's  com- 
ing. 

Mrs.  M.  [Amused.]  You  shall  have  that  in- 
terview alone. 

Lady  S.  Yes,  I  had  better  see  him  alone.  I 
shall  speak  with  the  greatest  plainness — but  come 
back  after  a  few  minutes. 

Mrs.  M.  What  do  you  think  Julia  really  feels 
about  it.'' 

Lady  S.  [After  a  pause.]  I  don't  want  to  be- 
tray the  child's  confidence,  but  she  is  crushed  and 
miserable  and  doesn't  care  what  becomes  of  her. 
I  went  to  her  room  last  night;  she  threw  herself 
into  my  arms.  She  is  broken-hearted  about  the 
Endsleigh  boy.  The  young  idiot  is  too  poor  to 
marry  yet. 

Mrs.  M.     Yes,  of  course. 

Lady  S.  But  he's  not  too  poor  to  be  en- 
gaged, and  they  are  both  so  young  they  could 
wait. 

Enter  Servant;  announcing 

Servant.     Sir  James   Caxton. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     117 

Enter    Sir    James,    almost    middle-aged,    a 
dull,    heavy-looking    man. 

Mrs.  M.     How  do  you  do.  Sir  James? 

Sir  J.  How  do  you  do?  How  do  again,  Lady 
Sarah?  [Nodding  to  her.l  [To  Mrs.  Murison.] 
Heard  the  news,  I  suppose? 

Mrs.  M.  Yes — I  was  very  much  surprised 

Sir  J.  Thought  you  would  be  .  .  .  How's 
the  child?      Been  ill,  hasn't   she? 

Mrs.  M.     She  is  better,  thank  you. 

Sir  J.  That's  right — I  suppose  you  know  that 
your  mother  and  Julia — ^you  cousin,  isn't  she, 
yes,  of  course — are  coming  up  this  afternoon? 

Mrs.  M.     I  have  just  heard  from  them. 

Sir  J.  That's  all  right  then — Lady  Sarah,  you 
were  good  enough  to  telegraph  for  me,  so  I'm 
here. 

Lady  S.     I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

Mrs.  M.  And  there  is  some  one  waiting  to  see 
me  in  the  drawing-room. 

Sir  J.  You  haven't  congratulated  me  yet — I 
suppose  you  forgot — it  doesn't  matter;  it's  only 
a  form. 

Mrs.  M.  [Going  towards  the  door.^  Yes,  it's 
only  a  form. 

Sir  J.     Allow  me.      [Opens  door.] 

[Exit  Mrs.  Murison. 

Sir  J.  [Going  awkwardly  towards  Lady 
Sarah.]     Well  what's  the  telegram  about? 


118     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lady  S.  Sit  down,  Sir  James,  I  want  to  speak 
to  you.     I  mean  to  speak  plainly. 

Sir  J.  Quite  right.     We  are  both  plain  people. 

Lady  S.  I  took  my  courage  into  my  two  hands, 
and  telegraphed. 

Sir  J.     I  thought  you  probably  took  a  pencil. 

Lady  S.     What  do  you  mean? 

Sir  J.  [Sheepishly.]  Only  a  little  joke.  Cour- 
age is  an  excellent  thing,  but  no  good  by  itself 
for  writing  a  telegram.  [She  makes  an  impatient 
gesture.]     Well,  what  is  it? 

Lady  S.  Why  did  you  propose  to  my  niece, 
Julia? 

Sir  J.  Because  I  want  to  marry  her — excellent 
reason 

Lady  S.  She's  not  in  love  with  you — not  a 
bit — you  must  know  that. 

Sir  J.  Sorry  for  it.  I  don't  believe  in  young 
women  being  in  love  before  they're  married — • 
time    enough    afterwards. 

Lady  S.  My  sister  made  her  accept  you  be- 
cause you  have  twenty  thousand  a  year.  I 
speak  plainly,  for  there  is  no  one  else  to  do  it. 
You  are  a  good  and  worthy  man,  but  you  were 
not   made   to   marry    a   beautiful    girl   like    Julia. 

Sir  J.  Perhaps  not,  but  I  don't  see  that  any- 
thing  is    gained   by   saying   it  now. 

Lady  S.  Sir  James,  thai;  girl  is  breaking 
her  heart  for  a  boy  who  went  to  India  the  other 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     119 

day,  without  speaking,  because  my  sister,  who 
is    a    very   worldly    woman,    prevented    him. 

Sir  J.  I'm  sorry;  I'll  take  her  about  and 
she'll   forget   him. 

Lady  S.  Don't  marry  her — the  engagement 
is  not  announced  yet,  no  one  knows  about  it 
except  ourselves — back  out  of  it — be  generous; 
be  kind.  Julia  dared  not  refuse  you,  she  is 
miserable   at   the   thought   of  marrying   you. 

Sir  J.  Well,  but  she  needn't  be — I'll  do  what 
I    can 

Lady  S.  Don't  marry  her.  Give  her  up. 
Don't  make  a  tragedy  of  that  young  thing's  life. 

Sir  J.  I  won't  if  I  can  help  it,  but  I  mean 
to  marry  her.  The  boy  who  went  to  India  was 
a  fool; — didn't  know  how  to  use  his  chance; 
she'll  forget  him  soon;  [gets  up  to  go]  I  will 
do  my  best  to  please  her. 

Lady  S.  I  thought  you  would  be  generous — 
I    thought   you   would   see   the   whole   thing. 

Sir  J.  I'm  going  to  be  generous.  I  won't 
tell  any   one  of  this  conversation. 

Lady  S.  But  why  do  you  want  to  marry  her 
after  what   I   have  told  you? 

Sir  J.     I'm  very  dull. 

Lady  S.  [Almost  losing  her  temper.]  You 
are   dreadfully   dull. 

Sir  J.  That's  why  I  want  to  marry.  I 
shan't   say  you  told   me   about  the   boy. 


120     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

But  I  shall  keep  my  eyes  open — and  I  can  take 
care  of  my  own. 

Lady  S.  [Indignant,  with  a  note  of  feeling 
in  her  voice.]  I  am  a  foolish  old  woman,  I've 
done  more  harm  than  good.  I  thought  perhaps 
you  would   understand. 

Sir  J.  I  quite  understand,  but  you  see  the 
woman  who  doesn't  get  the  man  she  wants  is 
unlucky  and  can't  help  it — has  to  put  up  with 
it;  but  the  man  who  doesn't  get  the  woman  he 
wants  is  an  ass.  I  always  think  you  should  take 
what  you  want  if  you  can  get  it — I  want  her. 

Lady  S.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  made  a  fool  of  my- 
self— and   done  no   good. 

Sir  J.  I  like  a  woman  who  makes  a  fool  of 
herself.  She's  generally  a  nice  woman,  there's 
where  you  get  the  pull  of  us.  I  rather  like 
fools,  though  they  bore  me  if  they're  men. 
Good-bye. 

Lady  S.  [^Looking  at  him  rvonderingly.']  I 
believe  you'll  be  kind 

Sir  J.     I*m  not  up  to  much,  but  I'll  try. 
Enter  Mrs.  Murison. 

Mrs.  M.     Are  you  going.  Sir  James? 

Sir  J.  Just  going.  Hope  to  come  this  after- 
noon, if  you  will  allow  me — meet  Lady  Caroline 
and  Julia. 

Mrs.  M.     You  are  coming  to  meet  them? 

\Rmgs. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     121 

Sir  J.     Yes,  au  revoir.  [Exit  Sir  James. 

Mrs.    M.      What   happened,    Aunt   Sarah? 

Lady  S.  [Snappishly.']  Nothing.  The  man's 
stupid.  [Evidently  quite  reluctant  to  acknowl- 
edge her  defeat.]  I  wish  I  hadn't  sent  for 
him. 

Mrs.  M.     What  did  he  say? 

Lady  S.  I  can't  tell  you  now,  I  am  too  angry. 
Did  you  see  Thomas's  mother? 

Mrs.  M.  Mrs.  Lobb — Oh,  yes — Thomas  is  go- 
ing to   Canada 

Lady  S.  [Evidently  not  in  the  least  inter- 
ested.]     Good  thing  for   him,  perhaps. 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is.  Mrs.  Lobh 
comes  from  Cornwall,  and  when  she  was  a  girl 
her  brother  went  to  Canada;  but  he  has  always 
been  poor  till  lately  because  he  was  so  set  on 
education,  she  says. 

Lady  S.  Wasted  his  time,  of  course,  on  learn- 
ing things  of  no  use  to  him  instead  of  doing  his 
work — served  him  right. 

Mrs.  M.  [Amused.]  He  is  beginning  to  do 
better  and  has  sent  for  Thomas.  The  Captain 
of  the  trading  ship  who  promised  to  take  him 
back  only  found  Mrs.  Lobb  this  morning — and 
his  ship  sails  to-morrow.  Thomas  goes  with  him 
at  four  o'clock  from  Euston  to-day. 

Lady  S.  What  does  the  uncle  do  besides  be- 
ing  set   on   education? 


122     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Mrs.  M.  Oh — something  with  railways.  Poor 
woman,  she  was  miserable  at  losing  her  boy. 
.  .  .  But  I  want  to  talk  about  Julia  and  Sir 
James. 

Lady  S.  I  would  rather  not  own  it,  but  that 
man  thoroughly  worsted  me,  and 

Mrs.  M.  [Evidently  listening  for  some  move- 
ment outside  the  house.']  Wait  till  the  children 
have  gone — they  are  just  ready — we  shall  hear 
them  go  by.  [Goes  to  the  window  and  opens 
it.]  The  air  is  lovely,  so  soft — and  the  sunshine 
will   do   May  a  deal  of  good. 

Thomas  enters  while  she  is  speaking.  He 
has  taken  off  his  apron,  evidently 
washed  his  face  and  brushed  his  hair. 
Stands,  cap  in  hand. 

Thomas.  [Touching  his  forelock.]  Please 
M'm,  I've  come  to  say  good-bye. 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  I  know — come  in.  [He  is  stand- 
ing by  the  door.  Your  mother  has  told  me  all 
about  it. 

Thomas.  [Going  a  few  steps  into  the  room.] 
She's  very  keen  on  my  going,  M'm,  but  I  don't  like 
leaving  her  and  Polly.  .  .  don't  know  how 
they'll  manage. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  but  it's  a  splendid  chance  for 
you. 

Thomas.  That's  what  she  says,  but  it's  come  so 
sudden-like.     I  believe  chances  always  does,  and 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     123 

I  don't  suppose  I  should  come  to  much  carrying 
out  the  papers 

Mrs.  M.  [With  an  encouraging  smile.]  Or 
blacking  our  shoes. 

Thomas.  I  like  doing  anything  for  you,  M'm. 
[Turns  his  head  towards  the  window,  and  his  face 
lights  wp.]  I  thought  I  heard  them.  Miss  May 
and  the  others  are  just  going. 

[Sounds  outside,  as  of  wheels. 

May.  [Only  her  voice — a  child^s  voice — is 
heard,  she  is  not  seen.]  Mother,  dear — Mother, 
dear. 

Mrs.  M.  [Going  towards  the  window.]  You 
must  say  good-bye  to  her. 

Thomas.  I  did,  M'm.  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
mind. 

Lady  S.  [Who  has  followed  Mrs.  Murison  to 
the  window.]     She  looks  much  better. 

Mrs.  M.  [To  the  children,  who  are  presumably 
beneath  the  window.]  Good-bye,  dears.  Don't 
let  her  get  too  tired.  Nurse.  I'm  saying  good-bye 
to  Thomas,  May  darling. 

May.  [Her  voice  is  heard.]  Tell  him  to  come 
back  again. 

Mrs.  M.  [Turning  to  Thomas.]  She  says  you 
are  to  come  back  again,  Thomas. 

Thomas.  [Going  towards  window,  hut  stand- 
ing shyly  a  step  away  from  it.]  I'll  come  back, 
Miss  May,  I'll  be  sure  to  come  back. 


124     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

May.     When  will  you  come? 

Mrs.  M.  \_Repeating.']  When  will  you  come? 
she  says. 

Thomas.  [To  May.]  I  don't  know,  but 
I'll  be  sure  to  come,  Miss  May;  don't  you 
fear. 

Mrs.  M.     Good-bye,  darlings. 

[The  children  evidently  go  on,  Mrs.  M. 
kisses  her  hand  to  them,  closes  the  win- 
dow, and  comes  back  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  M.  [To  Thomas.]  Have  you  seen  your 
uncle's  friend  who  is  to  take  you  to  Canada? 

Thomas.  No,  M'm,  but  mother  has.  She  says 
he  is  a  very  nice  gentleman. 

Mrs.  M.     The  voyage  will  do  you  good. 

Thomas.  That's  what  he  said.  Mother  told 
him  I  was  delicate,  and  he  said  the  sea  might  set 
me  up  and  start  me  growing.  But  I  don't  like 
leaving  her  and  Polly  [struggling  to  keep  back 
emotion]  and  I  don't  like  leaving  you  and  Miss 
May  ...  I  couldn't  *a'  gone  if  she  hadn't  been 
better. 

Mrs.  M.     Thank  God,  she's  well. 

Thomas.  [Going,  then  hesitating  and  speaking 
shyly.]  Please,  M'm,  I  want  to  thank  you  for  all 
your  kindness  to  us  ...  I  don't  know  where 
we'd  'a'  been  without  you.  Father  said  you  were 
our  best  friend — it's  one  of  the  last  things  he  did 
say. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     125 

Mrs.  M.  Thank  you  for  telling  me — I  know 
you'll  be  a  good  boy,  Thomas. 

Thomas.     I'll  try.     Good-bye,  M'm. 

Mrs.  M.  [As  Thomas  goes  towards  the  door.l 
Oh,  but  you  must  shake  hands  with  me.  [Quickly 
taking  something  from  her  purse.]  There  is  a 
sovereign  for  your  little  pocket. 

Thomas.  [Half  reluctant.]  Thank  you,  M'm, 
but  I  didn't  want  that  to  remember  you  by. 
[Raises  his  head  as  he  takes  her  hand  and  looks 
at  her.]      I'll  never  forget  you  as  long  as  I  live. 

Mrs.  M.     I  don't  believe  you  will.     Good-bye, 
dear  Thomas,  may  you  grow  up  strong  and  well, 
and  be  a  brave  man.     [Stoops  and  kisses  his  cheek. 
[Thomases  head  droops,  as  if  to  hide  his 
tears,  he  touches  his  forelock,  quite  ig- 
nores Lady  S.     Exit  rvithout  saying  a 
word,  closing  the  door  softly. 

Mrs.  M.      [Looking  after  him.]     Ah 

Lady  S.  My  dear  Evelyn,  how  could  you  kiss 
the  charwoman's  son — the  boy  who  blacks  your 
shoes  ? 

Mrs.  M.  He  looked  so  little  to  be  going  across 
the  world  alone,  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  his  pale 
face  and  sad  eyes.  And  I  thought  of  how  he 
had  sobbed  the  morning  he  heard  that  May  was 
better — and  of  his  father  as  I  saw  him  last,  lying 

still,  with  the  surprised  smile  on  his  face 

Curtain, 


ACT    II 

Time. — Present.  Seventeen  years  later  than  last 
Act.     An  afternoon  in  April. 

Scene. — Sitting-room  in  Lord  Barnstaple^s  villa 
at  Alassio,  charmingly  furnished.  Wide  doors 
at  back  leading  on  to  loggia,  with  marble  or 
stone  balustrade,  and  steps  in  centre  leading 
down  to  orange-garden.  The  orange-trees 
should  be  seen,  bearing  fruit  and  blossom. 
At  the  back  mountains  and  olive-trees;  on 
one  side  a  bit  of  the  blue  Mediterranean. 

Seated  on  the  right  is  Julia  {now  Lady  Caxton), 
about  SQ,  beautiful,  pleasant,  but  distant  in 
manner  to  any  but  her  own  people.  She  is 
reading  some  letters;  the  post  has  evidently 
just  come  in. 

At  the  grand  piano  on  the  left  May  Murison 
is  playing  very  softly.  She  is  23,  girlish, 
fair,  charming. 

By  the  window  Sir  James  Caxton  is  standing 
looking  a  good  deal  older  than  in  the  last 
Act. 

Far  down  stage   Robert   Vallide,   Sen.,   stands 
1«7 


128     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

listening  to  the  piano.  He  is  a  tall,  shrewd, 
eager  man  of  55,  keen,  businesslike,  and 
kindly, 

Vallide.      [To  Julia.]      Do  you  know,  Lady 
Caxton,  I  believe  I  have  heard  that  tune  before? 
Lady  C.     [Amused.]     May!     Mr.  Vallide  says 
he  knows  that  tune. 

May.  It  is  a  very  old  one — it's  Sullivan's 
**  Distant  Shore.** 

Vallide.  I'd  like  it  again.  They  used  to  play 
it  at  Montreal  in  old  days.  It  always  made  me 
feel  home-sick. 

Sir  J.  [To  Vallide.]  Isn't  it  time  you  went 
to  meet  your  nephew, 

Vallide.  [Looking  at  match.']  You  are 
right.  Sir  James,  it  is.  If  that  train's  punctual 
he'll  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Thank 
you.  Miss  Murison. 

[Gets  up  and  goes  towards  door. 

Julia.      Go    through   the    garden — it's    nearer. 

Vallide.      I    will.      [Eaiit    by    garden.      Looks 

back   and  says:]      Here's   Lord  Stratton  coming. 

[May  begins  to  play. 
Voice.     May!     Are  you  there? 

[She  evidently  hears  but  goes  on  playing. 
Lord  Stratton,  25,  a  heavy,  stupid- 
looking  young  man,  is  seen  coming  up 
the   loggia. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     129 

Sir  J.     [To  May.]     Geoff's  calling  you. 

Geoff.  May!  [Entering  the  room.']  I  say, 
do  come  out 

May.  [Stands  up  and  nods  her  head  at  him.] 
I  don't  want  to  come  out. 

Geoff.     Yes,  you  do.     I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

May.  [Sits  down  and  begins  to  play  again,] 
I  don't  want  to  be  talked  to. 

Geoff.     Oh,  all  right. 

[Marches  off  into  the  garden.     Evidently  cross. 

Julia.  I  must  say  you  are  a  very  cool  young 
lady. 

May.     Dear   Julia,  why  am  I   cool? 

Julia.     Are  you  not  engaged  to   Geoff.'' 

May.  No,  not  yet,  though  in  a  sort  of  way  I 
have  given  in  this  morning — at  least  I  said  I'd 
try  and  marry  him.  Mother  wants  it  so  much, 
and   he's   Uncle   Edward's   son. 

Julia.  It  doesn't  seem  to  strike  you  that 
Geoff  is  the  only  son  of  Lord  Barnstaple,  and  one 
of  the  best  partis  in  London. 

May.     Poor  old  Geoff! 

Julia.     Most  girls  would  jump  at  him. 

May.     Poor  old  Geoff! 

Re-enter  Geoff. 

Geoff.  [To  Julia.]  I  say,  Julia,  make  her 
come  for  a  walk. 

May.  I  don't  want  to  go  for  a  walk — I  want 
to   see   Mr.    Robert   Vallide.      He'll   be   here   di- 


ISO     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

rectly;  his  uncle  has  gone  to  the  station  to  meet 
him — he's  frightfully  pleased  at  the  idea  of  his 
nephew  getting  into  Parliament,  and  I  want  to 
see  what  he  is  like. 

Geoff.      The   blessed   carpet-bagger. 

May.     He  isn't  a  carpet-bagger. 

Geoff.     Well,  tub-thumper.     Do  come  out. 

May.     I   want  to  stay  here. 

Geoff.  You're  awfully  disagreeable  this  time. 
.  .  .  The  Pippins  want  me  to  go  and  stay 
with  them  in  Paris. 

May.  [Picking  up  a  letter  from  the  piano,"] 
Well — you  like  Miss  Pippin.  [To  Julia.]  I've 
had  a  long  letter  from  mother.  She's  so  pleased 
with  our  new  house  on  Campden  Hill — she  is 
getting  it  ready,  working  like  a  Trojan — how  did 
Trojans   work   hard,   Geoff? 

Geoff.  Why — like  Trojans.  [Looking  round."] 
I'm  getting  sick  of  this  place,  too  much  scenery 
about — ^there's   no    room    for   anything   lively. 

May.     You'd  better  go  to  Paris. 

Geoff.     I  will  if  you  worry  me  so. 

Enter   Ida,   24,   pretty   and   lively. 

May.      Here's   Ida.      Is   Aunt  Sarah   better? 

[Gets   up   and  goes  towards   Ida. 

Ida.     a  little — but  she's  very  cross. 

Julia.     What  have   you  been  reading  to   her? 

Ida.  Jane  Austen.  She  says  all  her  people 
are  tiresome,  and  all  their  aims  trivial.     And,  she 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     131 

doesn't  care  how  well  they  are  done,  she  wouldn't 
have  known  them  for  the  world,  and  doesn't 
want  to  hear  about  them. 

Julia.     Is   she  coming  down  to  tea.'' 

Ida.  I  don't  know.  I  told  her  Mr.  Vallide's 
nephew  was  coming.  She  asked  what  he  was 
like. 

May.     What  did  you  say? 

Ida.  I  told  her  that  he  had  the  New  World 
vigour   and   the   Old   World   politeness. 

May.     Why,  Ida,  you  are  quite  eloquent. 

Ida.  [With  mock  pathos.]  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter, he  likes  some  one  else,  as  usual.  He  told 
me  all  about  her  one  evening. 

May.     About  whom? 

Ida.  [May  turns  her  head  and  listens.]  Some 
girl  he  remembers.  He  hasn't  seen  her  for  years, 
but  he  always  wonders  everywhere  he  goes  if 
she  will  be  there. 

May.  How  sweet  of  him.  [To  Geoff  as 
they  saunter  towards  the  loggia  together.]  Very 
well,  I'll  come  for  a  little  while. 

[Ida  goes  to  the  piano,  makes  business. 
[Sir  James  watches  Geoff  and  May  dis- 
appear. 
[Julia   takes   up  a  letter  in  her  lap   and 
says  to   Ida. 

Julia.  Evelyn  only  just  missed  getting  the 
old  house  in  Regent's   Park  again. 


132     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Ida.  Really!  I  didn't  know  May  had  this 
waltz.  [Looking  at  music. 

Sir  J.  What,  the  house  where  Lady  Sarah 
abused  me  for  proposing  to  you.f* 

Julia.     It  didn't  make  any  difference. 

Sir  J.  No,  it  didn't  make  any  difference — in 
one  way — good  thing  Evelyn's  not  going  back  to 
it. 

Julia.     Why?  [Ida  might  play  softly. 

Sir  J.  It  was  there  that  she  heard  that  her 
husband  was  killed  in  Egypt. 

Julia.  [Nods.]  Seventeen  years  ago.  How 
strange  of  you  to  think  of  that. 

Sir  J.  I  think  of  a  good  many  things.  [Rest- 
lessly.]    I  wish  this  young  man  would  arrive 

Ida.  [At  piano.]  Anxious  to  see  your  suc- 
cessor, cousin  Jim.'* 

Sir  J.  Want  to  get  out  of  politics — ^but  I 
want  to  get  out  of  everything. 

Julia.  Oh,  Jim,  we  all  do  sometimes.  Life 
could   be  such   a   wonderful   thing — only  it  isn't. 

Sir  J.  [Sheepishly.]  Well,  I  bought  you  that 
ivory  carving  to-day,  it's  coming  home  when  it's 
cleaned  up 

Enter  Lord  Barnstaple.  He  is  past  middle 
age.  Thorough  Tory,  a  little  stiff  but 
kind,  as  all  his  people  are;  agreeable  and 
pleasantly    condescending    in    manner] 

Sir   J.     Well,  Barnstaple? 


C 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     1S3 

Julia.  [To  Sir  J.]  Oh!  .  .  .  [To  Lord 
B.]  Jim  has  bought  that  ivory  for  me^  Uncle 
Edward. 

Lord  B.  Awfully  good  of  him,  my  dear.  He 
is  always  finding  pretty  things  for  you.  Where 
is  Vallide.? 

Julia.      Gone   to   meet   his   nephew. 

Lord  B.     Ah!  [Rings. 

Enter  Servant. 
[To   Servant.]      See  that   a   room  is  ready   for 
Mr.  Robert  Vallide — Mr.  Vallide's  nephew.     He 
will  arrive  almost  directly. 

Servant.      Yes,  my   lord.  [Exit   Servant. 

Julia.  [To  Lorj)  B.]  Uncle  Edward,  did 
you  know  that  Mr.  Vallide  wasn't  a  Canadian.'* 

Lord  B.  Of  course.  He's  a  West  of  England 
man.  Went  out  young  to  make  his  way,  I  im- 
agine. 

Sir  J.  That's  why  he's  so  keen  on  educa- 
tion. 

Lord  B.  He  did  a  great  deal  for  it  in  Can- 
ada. 

Sir  J.  Felt  that  he  didn't  get  enough  of  it 
himself,  probably. 

Lord  B.  He  knows  a  good  deal.  I  am  never 
very  keen  on  the  people  who  have  made  what 
they  call  their  pile  and  hail  from — anywhere. 
But  I  like  Vallide.  When  I  was  doing  the  Col- 
onies— he  was   at   Ottawa  then — he  took  me   all 


134     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

over  the  Canadian  Pacific,  so  I  saw  a  good  deal 
of  him.  I  hadn't  seen  him  since  till  I  met  him 
at  Monte  Carlo  the  other  day — doing  Europe — 
and  it  was  my  turn  to  show  civilities. 

Ida.  You  knew  his  nephew  first  in  Canada, 
didn't  you,  father? 

Lord  B.  He  came  out  after  taking  his  de- 
gree. 

Julia.     And  then.f* — the  nephew,   I   mean.'' 

Lord  B.  Then — he  turned  up  in  London 
anxious  to  go  into  politics  or  something  of  that 
sort.  Our  Party  had  just  got  in,  I  wanted  a 
Private  Secretary,  and  he  was  good  enough  to 
come  to  me.  But  we  were  turned  out  after  a 
few  months. 

Julia.  You  were  all  such  rabid  Tories,  what 
could  you  expect? 

Lord  B.  I  wish  there  were  more  of  us;  this 
country  wasn't  built  for  a  democracy — or  by  one. 
And  Socialism,  if  it  comes,  will  pull  it  down  and 
only  leave  chaos  in  its  place.  Young  Vallide  is 
a  remarkable  man  and  I  shall  be  glad  if  he  gets 
in  for  Fieldborough. 

Sir  J.  Perhaps  he'U  wake  them  up.  I  never 
did. 

Lord  B.  They're  waking  up  of  their  own 
accord — ^that's   the   worst   of  it. 

[Lord  B.  crosses  over  to  Sir  J. 

Ida.      [Looking  up  from  the  piano.]      Geoff's 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     135 

American  friends  the  Pippins  are  in  Paris, 
father.  Colonel  Endsleigh  is  going  out  to  them 
for  a  few  days  and  may  come  on  here. 

Lord  B.     Ah!     A  good  fellow,  Endsleigh. 

Lady  C.  [Looks  up  quickly  at  the  mention  of 
Endsleigh's  name.  To  Ida.]  He's  coming  to 
Alassio  } 

Sir  J.  [Sulkily,  watching  his  wife.']  Why 
should  he  come  here? 

Julia.  Why  shouldn't  he?  I  knew  him  when 
I  was  a  girl — before  he  went  to  India 

Sir  J.     Well,  you  don't  now. 

Ida.  He's  a  great  friend  of  mine,  cousin 
James. 

Sir  J.  Friend  of  yours — is  he?  Oh — if  that's 
it !  [Pause, 

Lord  B.     Look  here,  Caxton,  when  young  Val- 

lide  comes  we  had  better  get  to  business  at  once. 

[Goes  to   Sir   J.  on  loggia. 

Re-enter  Geoff  and  May  together  from  gar- 
den,  they  pass  Sir  J.  and  Lord  B.,  who 
look   after  them   curiously. 

Geoff.  [To  Julia.]  We  are  not  getting  on 
a  bit. 

May.     Not  a  bit. 

Geoff.     May  used  to  be  much  nicer. 

May.  But  I  am  deteriorating.  I'm  much  nicer 
now  than  I  shall  be  presently. 

Geoff.     I  shan't  stand  it. 


136     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

May.  \Provohingly  and  laughing J\  Don't, 
dear   Geoff,  don't. 

[Sir  J.  and  Lord  B.  get  out  of  hearing. 

Ida.     You  are  the  strangest  creatures. 

Geoff.     May  used  to  be  a  nice  girl. 

May.      I'm  not  now. 

Geoff.  No,  you're  not.  I've  half  a  mind  to 
go  to  Paris. 

May.     There's  a  great  deal  going  on  there. 

Geoff.     Yes,  there  is — and  they  want  me. 

May.  l^Teasingly.']  I  am  sure  they  do.  If 
you  took  the  six  o'clock  train  from  here,  to-day, 
you   would   be   there   to-morrow   morning  .f* 

Geoff.      \Savagely.^      Oh! 

[Goes  off  hurriedly  through  the  loggia, 

Ida.  [Who,  with  Julia,  has  been  looking  on 
at  them  half-amused.^  Really,  May,  you  do 
worry  him. 

May.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  very  fond  of  him; 
he's  a  dear  boy,  but  I  don't  want  to  marry  him 
— that's  the  whole  story — I — don't — ^want — to 
— ^marry — him. 

Ida.      I  wonder  where   he's   gone? 

[Goes  out  to  loggia  and  looJcs  after  him; 
thus  Julia  and  May  are  left  virtually 
alone. 

May.  I  can't  bear  telling  Ida  that  I  don't 
want  Geoff — because  he  is  her  brother;  but  what 
can  I  do? 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     137 

Julia.      There    isn't    any    one    else? 

May.  No.  But  it  would  be  dreadfully  slow 
to  marry  a  cousin — not  like  being  married  at  all; 
only  like  staying  on  a  life-long  visit  to  a  rela- 
tion. 

Julia.     He  has  been  fond  of  you  so  long  now. 

May.  [Nods.]  Ever  since  that  summer  in 
Switzerland — years  ago — when  I  had  a  pig-tail 
— he  pulled  it  when  we  quarrelled.  But  he 
killed  all  the  wasps. 

Julia.  It's  splendid  of  Uncle  Edward  to  want 
you  to  marry  him. 

May.  Oh,  yes,  I  know;  and  mother  does,  too. 
I  am  trying.  But  the  Barnstaples  are  poor; 
Geoff  ought  to  marry  money — and  I  want  to  wait 
for  the  fairy  prince. 

Julia.  The  fairy  prince  generally  comes  too 
soon  or  too  late.  .  .  .  Don't  marry  Geoff  if 
you  don't  love  him!  There's  only  one  thing  in  a 
woman's  life  worth  playing  for,  and,  if  she 
misses  it,  everything  else  is  a  makeshift. 

May.  [Change  of  manner.]  I  wonder — did 
you   take    makeshifts  ? 

Julia.  I  took  the  things  I  was  told  I  couldn't 
do  without.  That's  what  many  women  do — [In 
a  low  voice,  with  a  glance  towards  Sir  James] 
but — I  have  played  the  game  fairly. 

May.      [Gravely.]      Dear  Julia 

[Ida  saunters  in,  and,  as  she  does  so.  May 


1S8     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

takes  up  a  white  parasol  that  has  been 
by   the  piano. 

May.  I'm  going  down  to  the  Curiosity  Shop 
— there  are  two  old  Savona  pots  that  mother 
would  like 

Ida.     Take  GeofF  with  you. 

May.  We  should  only  quarrel.  ...  It 
is  warm  enough  for  July.  [Exit  by  loggia. 

Ida.  May  never  seems  to  fall  in  love  with 
any  one,  and  every  one  does  with  her. 

Julia.     I  know. 

Ida.  I  wish  they  did  with  me;  but  I  am  the 
kind  of  girl  that  men  call  a  good  sort  and  tell 
things  to — ^that's  all. 

Julia.  I  saw  you  sitting  out  for  hours  with 
Mr.   Robert  Vallide  at  the  Benson  Greys. 

Ida.  I  daresay,  and  we  talked  about  other 
people — people   who    care   talk    about   themselves. 

Julia.  [Suddenly.']  Perhaps  he'll  fall  in 
love   with    May — it   wouldn't    please   her   mother. 

Ida.  No,  it  wouldn't  .  .  .  Men  are  very 
strange.  There  was  Teddy  Haston — he  used  to 
ride  with  me  every  day,  but  he  never  said  a 
word.     ...     I  believe  he's  dumb. 

Julia.  I  thought  girls  didn't  want  to  be 
married   nowadays. 

Ida.  I  don't  want  to  be  married,  but  I  should 
like  to  have  a  crowd  of  lovers  following  me — 
it  must  cheer  one  up  so — as  it  is,  no  one  has  ever 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     139 

proposed  to  me  at  all,  except  Colonel  Ends- 
lei  gh. 

Julia.  [Quickly.]  Frank  Endsleigh!  Did 
he?     When? 

Ida.  In  January;  and  even  he  wasn't  in  love 
— told  me  he  never  had  been  since  he  first  went 
to  India.  He  cared  for  some  girl  then, 
but  she  married  for  money 

Julia.  [Trying  to  keep  her  manner  natural.] 
Why  didn't   you  accept  him? 

Ida.  Why  should  I?  A  middle-aged  man^ 
not  even  in  love  with  me? 

Julia.    [Ruefully.]    Yes,  he's   middle-aged 

Re-enter  Lord  B.,  Sir  James,  and  Geoff,  not 
May. 

Lord  B.  [Half-amused,  half -vexed.]  Look 
here,  Geoif  and  May  have  been  squabbling  again 
— he  says  you  were  both  here,  so  you  know  about 
it 

Geoff.  And  I'm  tired  of  it,  I  shall  go  to 
Paris.  Endsleigh's  there,  and  the  Pippins — 
Janetta  Pippin  is  worth  a  dozen  of  May — I  be- 
lieve she'd 

Lord  B.  Nonsense,  my  boy — we  don't  want 
any  Miss  Janetta  Pippins  in  our  family.  You 
have  told  us  all  a  dozen  times  that  your  heart 
is   set  on  marrying  May. 

Geoff.     It  was — but  it  isn't  now. 

Lord  B.     She  was  just  coming  round. 


140     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Geoff.  I  don't  believe  she'll  ever  come  round. 
Look  here,  let  me  go  for  a  week  to  Paris — she 
told  me  to  go,  and  I  should  like  to  take  her  at 

her  word 

Lord  B.  Suppose  she  asks  you  to  stay — what 
then? 

Geoff.      Why — Oh! — she    won't — not    she 

Ida.  Father,  let  him  go — it  would  be  far  bet- 
ter. [Bell  heard. 

Julia.  There's  the  front  door  bell,  Mr.  Val- 
lide  bringing  in  his  nephew  with  proper  formal- 
ity, I  suppose. 

Geoff.     I'll  get  out  of  the  way. 
Julia      [To   Ida.]      And  they   don't  want  us. 
[Exeunt   Julia,   Ida,   and  Geoff   hi/  gar- 
den. 

[Stage    left    to    Lord    B.    and    Sir 
James. 

Enter  Servant. 
Servant.     Mr.   Vallide   and   Mr.   Robert  Val- 
lide. 

[Enter  Mr.  Vallide  and  Robert  Val- 
lide. Robert  is  about  trventy-seven, 
good-looJcing,  good  manners,  with  an 
air  of  reserve  and  simplicity.  He 
should  have  a  distinctive  personality 
as  of  a  strong  man  able  to  hold  his 
own. 
Lord  B.     [Going  forward  to  him.]     How  do 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     141 

you  do,  Vallide?  Good  of  you  to  come.  Not 
very  tired,  after  your  journey? 

Robert.  Not  at  all,  [shaking  hands]  and  de- 
lighted to  come. 

Lord  B.     Do  you  know  Sir  James  Caxton.^ 

Sir   J.      How  do  you  do?      [shaking  hands.] 

Lord  B.    Well  now!    Are  your  things  here 

Robert.  I  left  them  at  the  hotel  on  my  way 
up. 

Lord  B.  Oh — but  we  expect  you  to  stay  with 
us — plenty  of  room. 

Robert.      But 

Lord  B.  We  want  you — ^then  we  can  talk 
over   things   at   leisure. 

Robert.  [After  a  little  pause.]  Thank  you 
very  much — my  uncle  refuses  to  take  me  on  to 
Rome  with  him. 

Lord  B.  Good:  we  are  here  for  another  ten 
days,  and  my  sister — Lady  Sarah  Stratton — she 
has  kept  house  for  me  since  my  wife  died — is 
expecting  you.  Now — shall  we  get  to  business? 
Your  uncle  wants  to  go  to-night,  so  there  isn't 
much  time. 

Sir  J.     I  don't  know  whether  I  need  stay? 

Lord  B.  Yes — yes — we  want  you.  [To  Rob- 
ert.] No  doubt  you  were  surprised  to  get  your 
uncle's   telegram. 

Robert.  [With  a  smile.]  No.  He  was  al- 
ways prompt — and  always  telegraphs. 


142     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Vallide.  Ah!  the  world  I  live  in  is  a  sturdy 
youngster,  in  a  hurry  to  overtake  the  old  one. 

Lord  B.  Quite  right — let's  sit  down.  [To 
Robert.]  Mr.  Vallide,  your  uncle  expects  a 
great  deal  of  you. 

Vallide.  I  do.  He  must  be  Prime  Minister 
some  day. 

Robert.     Rather  a  large  order,  uncle  Bob! 

Vallide.  It  can  be  done — step  by  step.  One 
gets  to  the  top  of  a  house  by  a  ladder,  not  a 
jump. 

Lord  B.  [With  a  smile.}  There's  generally 
a  trap-door,  and  narrow  stairs  that  lead  to  it. 
[Turning  to  Robert.]  Is  your  interest  in  poli- 
tics as  keen  as   ever? 

Robert.     Quite. 

Lord  B.  Good.  Have  you  thought  of  going 
into   Parliament  ? 

Robert.      Yes — but   I    didn't   expect 

Lord  B.  Of  course  not,  never  expect  any- 
thing. .  .  .  Sir  James  intends  to  resign  his 
seat  for  Fieldborough  at  the  end  of  the  Session. 
I  happened  to  mention  it  to  your  uncle  the  other 
night,  with  the  result  that  —  well,  the  tele- 
gram. 

Robert.     You  think 


Lord  B.  I  can  think  of  nobody  better  to  sug- 
gest to  the  Party  than  yourseljf — my  opinion  is 
sure  to  be  asked  on  account  of  my  local  influence 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     143 

— and  we  shall  be  most  fortunate  if  we  can  in- 
duce you  to   stand. 

Sir  J.  It  would  bother  you  less  than  most 
places;  there  isn't  much  to  subscribe  to,  and  it's 
a  good  way  from  London  .  .  .  they  can't 
bring  you  down  for  every  bazaar  or  vestry  meet- 
ing. 

Robert.  [To  Lord  B.]  I  should  be  delighted 
if  I  thought  I  had  a  chance. 

Lord  B.  Chance — of  course  you'd  have  an  ex- 
cellent chance.  It  might  be  well  to  get  some 
local  standing,  if  you  rented  a  place,  for  in- 
stance. I  believe  there'd  be  no  difficulty.  [Look- 
ing towards  old  Vallide.] 

Vallide.  [Quickly.^  None.  He  can  have  as 
much  money  as  he  pleases,  and  half  a  million 
the  day  I  see  M.  P.  written  after  his  name. 
There'll  be   another  half-million  when   I   die. 

Robert.  This  won't  do.  [Putting  his  hand 
on  his  uncle's  shoulder.]  You  mustn't  take  any 
notice  of  him.  Lord  Barnstaple. 

Vallide.  You  are  my  boy.  I  haven't  any  one 
else. 

Robert.  Yes,  uncle  Bob,  I'm  your  boy,  but 
too  old  to  be  tipped   any  longer. 

Lord  B.  Well,  we  shall  be  at  Fieldborough  at 
Whitsuntide,  perhaps  you'll  come  down  and  see 
a  little  of  the  neighbourhood. 

Robert.      Thank   you   very   much.      You   have 


144     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

taken  me  by  surprise.  But  it  is  what  I  would 
like  immensely. 

Vallide.      You   can    spend   money   like   water. 

Robert.  No!  Uncle  Bob.  It's  difficult  to  dis- 
appoint you,  but  you  gave  me  the  weapons  to 
fight  my  own  battle,  and  you  must  let  me  do  it. 
I  don't  want  to  spend  money  like  water,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  take  that  half-million — while 
you  live  at  any  rate.  You  may  want  to  alter 
your  mind  about  it,  before  you  die. 

Lord   B.      There'll  be   expenses. 

Robert.  They  needn't  be  extravagant — andl 
[looking  at  his  uncle]  I  can  meet  them.  I  am 
modern  enough  to  want  only  the  money  I've 
worked   for. 

Lord  B.  Humph — I  hope  your  views  are 
sound — some  of  us,  you  see,  can't  help  having 
money  without  working  for  it. 

Robert.  An  inheritance — excellent.  It  gives 
people  a  chance  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  for  the 
world  that  would  never  get  done  at  all  if  every- 
body had  to  work  for  a  living.  Don't  think  I 
imagine  that  the  working  class  consists  only  of 
those  who  earn  money — some  of  the  best  work 
in  the  whole  world  has  been  done  by  men  who 
never  earned  a  penny  in  the  technical  sense — 
they  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  do  it  if  they 
had  been  poor. 

Lord  B.     Good.     And  on  other  points? 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     145 

Robert.  On  all  points  I  am,  politically,  pre- 
cisely what  I  was  when  I  had  the  honour  of  be- 
ing your  Private   Secretary. 

Lord  B.     That's  right. 

Robert.  But  I  should  like  to  try  for  Field- 
borough  without  taking  a  place,  or  trying  to  daz- 
zle the  electors.  If  there's  a  fight  all  the  better, 
but  I  don't  want  a  money  one. 

Sir  J.  Quite  right.  Money's  overrated.  I 
never  got  anything  out  of  it,  and  if  people  can 
get  it  out  of  you  they  never  want  anything  else; 
it's  generally  a  most  degrading  element  in  hu- 
man  life. 

Vallide.  Well — it's  only  a  man  with  a  com- 
fortable income  who  can  afford  to  say  that. 

Sir  J.  [To  Old  Vallide.]  I  daresay — I 
don't  think  you  want  me  any  more  just  now — I 
shall  be  happy  to  be  of  use  to  your  nephew  if 
I  can. 

[Exit  Sir  James  by  loggia. 

Lord  B.  [Turning  to  Robert.]  You  are  a 
pretty  good  speaker,  I  believe? 

Robert.  I  haven't  had  much  opportunity, 
except  at  the  Union — at  Oxford;  which  doesn't 
count  for  much. 

Lord  B.  Well,  but  you  helped  Fuller  with  his 
election  ? 

Robert.     I  did  a  little.      [Modestly.'] 

[Sir    James,    at    end   of   loggia,    signs    to 


146     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lord  B.,  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak  to 
him. 

Lord  B.  [Evidently  pleased  with  Robertas 
modesty S\  Ah!  I  think  we  shall  get  on.  [To 
the  Uncle  Vallide]    He  is  quite  right. 

Vallide.  I'm  delighted  to  hear  you  say  it, 
my  lord. 

Lord  B.  And  don't  be  disappointed.  Some 
day  he  will  marry,  then  you  can  settle  that  half- 
million  on  his  wife,  or  his  heirs,  he'll  want  it  as 
a  background  for  his  career,  though  he  refuses 
it   as  a  foundation. 

Vallide.  [Good-naturedly. '^  I'm  very  angry 
with  him,  but  I  rather  like  him  for  it 

Lord  B.  One  moment — I  think  Caxton  wants 
to  speak  to  me. 

[Exit  Lord  B.  to  loggia,  where  he  stands 
well  out  of  hearing,  talking  to  Sir  J. 

Robert.  Thank  you  for  that,  Uncle  Bob. 
[Then  with  a  change  of  manner.']  And  look 
here,  it  was  splendid  of  you  to  telegraph  me, 
and  Barnstaple's  a  brick.  I'll  fight  Fieldborough 
with  all  my  might,  if  I  get  the  chance.  He  said 
I  was  ambitious — he's  right — I  am.  Don't  be 
afraid,  Uncle  Bob,  no  trap-doors  or  back  stair- 
cases, but  look  up  to  the  topmost  rung,  I'll  make 
for  it.  Probably  I  shall  come  down  crash  like 
the  Master-Builder,  but  never  mind. 

Vallide.     I'll  make  the   fall  soft  for  you  if 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     147 

you  do.  [Robert  shakes  his  head.]  And  Lord 
Barnstaple  gave  me  a  tip  just  now  by  which  I'll 
cheat  the  death-due  monger  of  a  good  deal  all 
the  same 

Robert.     You  immoral  old  scoundrel! 

Vallide.  [Delighted.]  So  you'd  better  set 
about    collecting   them. 

Robert.      Collecting  what? 

Vallide.  Belongings.  A  wife,  to  begin 
with 


Robert.     No,  thank  you- 


Vallide.     I  think  Lady  Ida's  sweet  on  you. 

Robert.  Nonsense.  She's  a  good  sort,  but 
not  that  kind  of  girl.  I  say — [change  of  man- 
ner]— It's  awfully  kind  of  Lord  Barnstaple  to 
ask  me  to  stay  here,  but  I  wish  you'd  let  me  go 
on  to  Rome  with  you  to-morrow. 

Vallide.  [Firmly.]  No,  my  boy,  it  would 
bother  me.  It's  always  been  my  way  to  see  what 
I've  got,  then  to  put  it  aside.  Do  you  remember 
when  you  came  out  to  Canada  first.'*  Why,  after  a 
couple  of  days  I  wondered  what  I  was  going  to 
do  with  you.  Luckily,  you  had  to  be  educated, 
that  took  you  off.  Just  the  same  when  you  came 
back.  I  couldn't  sleep  the  night  before  you 
arrived,  but  once  I'd  seen  you  again  I  didn't  want 
you  to  stay  very  long.  When  a  man's  lived  his 
life  alone  he  has  to  be  left  to  himself  to  the  end. 
.     .     .     Perhaps  we  mayn't  get  another  word  to- 


148     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

gether  this  journey,  but  think  over  the  hint  I've 
given  you.     When  you  marry,  I  \7ant  to  be  proud 

of  your  wife 

Robert.      [Gaily.']      You   shall 


Vallide.  She'll  be  proud  enough  of  you — you 
are  made  of  the  real  stuff 

Robert.  Don't  say  that  or  I  shall  have  a 
weird  future. 

Vallide.     Pure  gold 

Robert.  Pure  gold  is  too  soft  for  the  wear 
and  tear  of  this  world,  Uncle  Bob — besides  you 
make  me  feel  like  the  good  young  man  who 
died. 

Vallide.     Who  was  he? 

Robert.  He  painted  beautifully  in  water 
colours,  and  of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 
Not  my  sort,  Uncle  Bob — I  want  to  live,  to  live! 
I'm  not  the  puny,  half -starved  boy  any  more — 
you  nourished  me,  and  the  fresh  life  of  the  New 
World — where  it  is  still  morning  time  and  the 
strength  of  the  day  is  before  it^ — stirs  my  pulses 
sometimes  till  I  feel  as  if  I  could  carry  the  uni- 
verse  in   a   bag   swung   over   my   shoulders. 

Vallide.     That's  what  I  want  you  to  do — that's 
what   I   want — [lower  tone.l      They're  coming. 
Enter  Julia  and  Ida  by  loggia. 

Ida.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Vallide?  [Shakes 
hands.]  You  know  my  cousin.  Lady  Caxton? 
[Ida  rings  the  bell.] 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     149 

Julia.  [To  Robert.]  How  do  you  do?  We 
all  know  you. 

Re-enter  Sir  James  and  Lord  B.,  talking;  they 
hang  bach  at  first. 
Servants  come  in  and  lay  tea.    Right. 
[Ida  crosses  stage  with  Robert  Vallide. 
He  and  she  stand  first,  then  sit  on  sofa 
L.,  grand  piano  behind  them. 

Ida.  [Turning  to  Robert.]  I'm  so  glad  you 
were  able  to  come. 

Robert.     So  am  I. 

Ida.  [Looking  round  and  speaking  to  Lady 
Caxton.]  Julia,  I  wonder  if  you  would  make 
tea — I  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Vallide. 

Julia.  Of  course.  [Sits  down  to  table,  with 
Sir  J.  and  Lord  B.  near  her.] 

Ida.  [Turning  again  to  Robert.]  Father 
tells  me  that  he  has  asked  you  to  come  to  us  at 
Court  Acres — Fieldborough,   you  know. 

Robert.     I   shall  look   forward  to  it. 

Ida.  It's  very  dull — Sir  James  was  horribly 
bored — but  they  are  waking  up — that's  what 
Father  is  so  afraid  of,  for  then  they'll  want  to 
go  away — there  isn't  enough  work  for  them  there. 

Robert.  It  must  he  found  .^  Every  place 
should  have  its  own  industry — its  own  workers — 
work  that  can  be  done  under  a  clear  sky  and  in 
pure  air.  We  want  to  grow  strong  men,  not 
ansemics  cooped  up  in  cities 


150     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Ida.  Tell  them  so!  Sir  James  wouldn't  talk 
to  them. 

Robert.     He  sees  things 

Ida.  [Quickli/.']  I  think  that,  too.  Perhaps 
a  spell  has  been  put  upon  him  and  he  has  to  be 
silent. 

Robert.  Perhaps.  {^Looking  round.'\  This 
place  is  like  a  dream,  and  a  spell  sounds  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  [Looks  round  at 
the    tea-table.     Change   of   manner.]     Some   tea? 

Ida.  Please.  [They  go  together  to  the  tea- 
table  at  which  Julia  is  presiding,  but  remain 
standing. 

Robert  [To  Ida.]  By  the  way,  I  met  a 
friend  of  yours  at  dinner  the  other  night — Col- 
onel Endsleigh.  [Julia  looks  up. 

Ida.      [Demurely.]     Oh. 

Robert.  He  said  he  was  coming  to  Paris  and 
Monte  Carlo,  and  going  back  by  Genoa. 

Sir  J.  [Grumpily. 'I  When  is  he  going  back 
to  India  .^ 

Robert.     In  October 

Sir  J.      [Who  has  been   listening.']      Ah! 

Robert.  [To  Ida.]  Now — bread  and  butter! 
[Hands  some  to  Ida  who  retreats  towards  sofa 
again  with  her  tea.  Robert  puts  the  plate  back 
on  table  and  turns  to  rejoin  Ida — looks  towards 
garden,  gives  a  little  start,  hesitates,  and  says  in 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     151 

a   different   tone.]      Who   is   that   coming   up   the 
garden  by  the  orange-trees? 

[Ida    turns    her    head    as    May    Murison 
comes  up  the  steps  to  the  loggia. 

Ida  Oh^  it's  my  cousin.  [Robert  stands  stock 
still  staring  at  her.  Ida  looking  at  him  in  sur- 
prise, after  a  pause.]      Do  you  know  her? 

Robert.  [Without  moving  his  eyes  from  May.] 
No. 

Enter    May.      Robert    stands    hesitating.      He 
and  she  look  at  each  other. 

Julia.     [To  May.]     Did  you  get  your  pots? 

May.     I  did. 

Lord  B.   [Gets  up.]  Pots — what  pots? 

May.  Two  blue  and  white  pots^  old  Sevona. 
I  wanted  them  for  mother. 

Lord  B.     Where's  GeofF? 

May.     I  don't  know. 

Lord  B.  Oh.  Well,  let  me  introduce  you  to 
the  future  member  for  Fieldborough.  [To  Rob- 
ert.] Vallide,  this  is  my  niece,  Miss  May  Muri- 
son. 

May.  How  do  you  do?  [She  holds  out  her 
hand.] 

Robert.  How  do  you  do?  [He  takes  it  as  if 
in  a  dream.] 

[Ida  gets  up  from  the  sofa,  as  if  she  knerv 
that  he  wouldn't  come  back  to  her.  Goes 


152     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

over  to  the  tea-table  and  joins  the  group 
there. 
Julia.    \_From  tea-table.]      Some  tea.  May? 
May.     Please. 

[Julia  pours  out  and  gives  it  to  Robert. 
[May    half -unconsciously    retreats    a    step 
towards  the  sofa  on  L.  where  Ida  had 
been  sitting.     Takes  the  tea  from  Rob- 
ert— sits    down.      He    first    stands    and 
then    sits    down    beside    her    while    they 
talk. 
Julia.  [At  tea-table  to  Ida.]     We  must  go  over 
to  Monte  Carlo,  Mr.  Vallide  has  been  telling  us 
of  a  system. 

Vallide.     It  only  works  for  a  time. 
Julia.      I    might   get   some   money   for    frocks, 
in   Paris   on  our   way  home.      [Laughter.] 

May.  [To  Robert.]  Oh,  yes.  We've  been 
quite  excited  since  the  telegram  went.  What  did 
you  think  it  meant? 

Robert.  I  thought  it  was  one  of  my  uncle's 
sudden  inspirations,  but  I  was  glad  to  come  to 
Italy. 

May.  You  will  love  this  place,  it's  so  little — 
and  so  still.  No  fashionable  people  or  prome- 
nade, or  Kursaal,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  only 
the  mountains  and  the  Mediterranean,  and  the 
olives,  and  there  are  wonderful  walks. 

[During  this  talk  it  seems  almost  as  if  an 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     153 

enchantment  stole  over  Robert,  as  if  he 
were  under  a  spell  from  which  he  is  only 
roused  hy  the  interruption  at  the  end 
of  the  Act. 

Robert.     I  should  like  to  do  them  all. 

May.  Oh,  but  you  will,  of  course.  Uncle  Ed- 
ward said  he  should  ask  you  to  stay 

Robert.     Have  you  been  here  long? 

May.     I  came  with  Lady  Caxton  a  week  ago. 

Robert.      Lady    Caxton   is ? 

May.     My  cousin. 

Robert.  \_As  if  remembering.']  Yes.  And 
Lord  Barnstaple? 

May.  Lord  Barnstaple  is  my  great-uncle — 
my  mother's  uncle. 

Robert.  {^Keenly  interested  hut  trying  not  to 
show  it.]  Of  course — and  Lady  Sarah  Stratton? 
I  heard  she  was  here — she  is  your — great- 
aunt? 

May.  Yes;  she  is  upstairs  to-day,  doing  a 
little  gout,  unfortunately.  She  has  kept  house 
for  Uncle  Edward  since  his  wife  died.  She  al- 
ways takes  care  of  some  one 

Robert.     Did  she  take  care  of  you? 

May.     Oh  yes,  of  us  all, — my  father  went  back 

to  Egypt  some  time  after  Gordon  died — and 

[stops] 

Robert.  [Showing  that  he  understands  what 
she  means.]     1  know —  That  must  have  been? 


154     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

May.  Seventeen  years  ago^  when  I  was  a  little 
girl. 

Robert.  [^Keenly  interested,  hut  trying  not  to 
show  it.']      And  then  you  went   abroad? 

May.  Yes,  with  Aunt  Sarah  and  lived  in  Swit- 
zerland for  years. 

Robert.     And  now.-^ 

May.  Now  we  have  come  back — oh,  but  (won- 
deringly)  it  is  only  two  minutes  since  we  met, 
and  I  am  suddenly  telling  you  my  family  history 
— you  seemed  so  interested — I  suppose  it  was 
Gordon's  name — an  Englishman  always  thrills 
to  it! 

Robert.  Always.  .  .  .  Did  you  like  liv- 
ing in  Switzerland? 

May.  Yes,  but  we  were  glad  to  come  back. 
We  are  settling  down  now — on  Campden  Hill. 
Mother  just  missed  getting  our  old  house  in  Har- 
ford Terrace  again  by  a  few  hours. 

Robert.  I  saw  some  furniture  going  in  last 
week. 

May.  But  you  didn't  know  it  was  our  house, 
or  that  we  had  lived  there. 

Robert.  I  saw  some  furniture  going  into  an 
empty  house  in  Harford  Terrace,  I  happened  to 
be  passing. 

May.     I  dare  say  it  was  the  one  we  lived  in. 

[-4  burst  of  laughter  comes  from  the  tea-stable. 

Lord  B.     No,  that  wouldn't  do. at  all. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     155 

Vallide.  You  see,  after  a  point  the  bank  steps 
in  and  sweeps  it  all  off. 

Julia.  Well,  I  was  told  that  if  you  followed 
the  colour  it  was  a  very  safe  lead. 

Robert.  [To  May.]  Those  gamblers  are  still 
discussing  Monte  Carlo. 

May.  It  seems  wicked  to  talk  of  money  in  this 
place,  doesn't  it.^*  The  valleys  are  choked  with 
violets,  and  you  can't  think  what  the  narcissus 
and  the  jonquils  are  like. 

Robert.  There's  a  little  red  Roman  road — 
some  one  told  me  of  it 

May.  Through  the  olive  woods;  it  goes  to 
Santa  Croce.  At  night,  when  the  moonlight  comes 
through   the   trees,   it's    like   an    enchantment. 

Robert.  [Dreamili/.]  It's  like  an  enchantment 
here.  What  is  the  ruin  on  that  top  of  the  moun- 
tain over  the  way.^* 

May.      It's   the  princess's   church. 

Robert.     What  princess? 

May.  Hundreds  of  years  ago  there  was  a 
princess  who  loved  some  one  who  wasn't — any- 
body at  all,  and  the  king  wouldn't  let  her  marry 
him * 

Robert.  So  she  buijt  a  church  to  be  married 
in? 

May.  No,  she  married  him  first,  in  spite  of 
all  things. 

*  This  is  a  well-known  legend  of  Alassio. 


156     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Robert.     I  like  that  princess. 

May.     So  do  I. 

Robert.     And  then.'* 

May.  And  then  they  hid  themselves  away  in  a 
little  chalet  on  the  mountain,  and  were  very  happy 
for  a  long  time. 

Robert.     Just  those  two  together? 

May.  Just  those  two  together.  One  day,  by 
chance,  the  king  came  upon  them.  She  was  wash- 
ing clothes,  and  singing  while  she  did  it,  and  the 
king  was  so  struck  with  her  happiness  that  he 
forgave  them,  and  they  went  back  to  court.  But 
sometimes,  long  afterwards,  when  he  had  been 
made  a  noble,  they  used  to  steal  away  to  the  little 
mountain  home 

Robert.     And  then? 

May.  The  princess  said  she  would  build  a 
church  to  its  memory.  It  was  finished  while  he 
was  at  the  war,  and  the  night  he  was  coming 
home  she  had  it  lighted  up  and  waited  for  him. 
But  he  never  came — he  never,  never  came  back. 
They  light  it  up  still  once  a  year,  and  say  a  mass 
for  his  soul — up  there  in  the  ruins.  So,  you  see, 
the  story  is  not  forgotten. 

Robert.  It  will  never  be  forgotten.  It  has 
the  seed  of  immortality  in  it. 

May.  [Dreamily.^  Among  the  high  weeds, 
perhaps,  growing  close  against  its  walls.      [With 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     157 

a  little  start. ^     What  a  strange  talk  this  is,  Mr. 
Vallide! 

Robert.     It's  only  five  minutes  ago  now 

[Lord  B.  and  old  Vallide  come  forward 

talking  together.     There  is  a  movement 

among  the  rest  of  the  group.     May  and 

Robert  get  up. 

Vallide.      I'm   very   much   obliged  to   you   for 

everything,    Lord    Barnstaple;    I'm    delighted    to 

think  that   he's    going  to   stay  with   you,   and  if 

Lady  Ida  takes  him  in  hand  a  bit,  why  he'll  be 

all  right. 

Ida.  l^Looks  round  with  a  little  laugh,  and  says 

to  Vallide.]      I'll  do  my  best 

May.  [Robert  takes  up  a  photograph  from  the 
piano  behind  the  sofa."]  That's  my  cousin,  Geoff 
— Lord  Barnstaple's  son,  you  know.  He  is  here 
with  us. 

Robert.  Oh,  yes,  Lord  Stratton.  {^Puts  it 
down.] 

May.     You  knew  him 

Robert.     No.     I  never  saw  him.     I  was  only 

Lord   Barnstaple's    political   secretary   for   a   few 

weeks.  [Lord  Barnstaple  comes  forward. 

[May  and  Ida  saunter  towards  the  window 

with  Vallide  so  as  to  he  out  of  hearing. 

Lord  B.    [To  Robert.]    I  saw  you  looking  at 

my  son's  portrait. 


158     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Robert.      Miss   Murison  has   just   been  telling 


Lord  B.  [His  face  lighting  up.']  Has  she?  She 
is  a  very  interesting  person  to  him,  and — I'm 
speaking  as  if  you  were  my  confidential  secretary 
again — I  think — I  hope — she  is  going  to  make 
him  happy.     Oh,  there  he  is. 

[Geoff  has  appeared  on  the  loggia,  look- 
ing   determined.     He    has    changed    his 
clothes. 
[Lord    B.    leaves    Robert,    who    has    been 
aghast  at   his  last  speech,  and  goes  to- 
wards his  son. 
[Vallide  and  Sir  James  come  up  to  Rob- 
ert   and   speak    to    him,    but    he    stands 
watching    May    and    the    group    on    the 
other  side  of  the  room,  though  presum- 
ably he  doesn't  hear  what  they  say. 
Lord  B.   [To  Geoff.]  Where  are  you  going? 
Geoff.    [To   his   father.]      I   am  tired   of  this 
place — can't  think  what  you  can  see  in  it.     Monte 
Carlo    is    good    enough    for    me — or    Paris — and 
I'm  off  there,  unless — [Looks  towards  May.] 

Lord  B.  [To  May  anxiously.]  Ask  him  to  stay, 
my  dear. 

May.  To  stay?  [Looks  up,  unconsciously,  gives 
a  glance  towards  Robert.]      Oh — I  can't. 

Curtain. 


ACT    III 

Time. — Ten  days  later.    Late  afternoon. 

Scene. — Garden  of  the  Villa.  On  i..  a  deep 
loggia  with  doorrvay  into  the  house — which 
should  be  seen  above  it.  The  windows  of 
the  house  should  have  green  jalousie  blinds. 
Rest  of  Stage  taken  up  with  garden — seats 
conveniently  placed,  S^c.  At  bach  (a  cloth) 
mountain  with  olives,  and  on  top  ruin  of  a 
church  (with  ruined  windows).  Bushes, 
flowers,  S^c,  picturesque  garden. 

On  the  jj.,  near  doorway,  sitting  on  a  low  chair 
Lady  Sarah  Stratton  looking  much  older 
than  in  the  First  Act,  she  wears  a  shawl,  a 
walJcing-stick  is  against  her  chair.  She  has 
evidently  been  suffering,  but  her  manner  is 
as  vigorous  as  ever.  Julia  is  sitting  by  her 
with  an  open  book  on  her  lap.  To  the  r., 
lower  down  alm(Ost  hidden  from  them  by 
bushes  or  trees  on  a  seat  as  if  waiting,  Rob- 
ert and  May  are  sitting  together,  but  Lady 
S.  does  not  know  they  are  there. 

Farther  back,  centre  of  Stage  Sir  James  is  lean- 
ing   against    side    of    loggia    looking    sulkily 
ahead.     Presently  he  smokes, 
159 


160     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lady  S.  No,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  to  hear 
any  more.  What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of 
the  woman  who  wrote  it? 

Julia.  [Turning  to  the  title-page,]  Eliza  St. 
John  Blake. 

[May  and   Robert   amused,   lean   forward 
and  listen. 

Sir  J.  What  is  the  matter  with  her? 

Lady  S.  She's  vulgar.  There  isn't  a  creature 
in  her  book  who  hasn't  a  title. 

Julia.  It's  rather  funny,  you  know.  She  al- 
way  speaks   of  "  the  Marquis  "  and  "  the  Earl." 

Lady  S.  Just  as  if  they'd  never  been  chris- 
tened— or  were  illegitimate.  It's  extraordinary 
how  many  novelists  are  afraid  to  write  of  their 
own  class  of  which  at  any  rate  they  know  some- 
thing. They  always  want  to  gather  up  their  skirts 
in  a  slum  or  to  trail  them  through  a  palace — 
though  they  belong  to  neither,  and  very  soon  be- 
tray it. 

Julia.  The  middle-class  is  rather  dull,  you 
know.  Aunt  Sarah,  they  want  to  look  outside  it. 

Lady  S.  DuU.^  Not  at  all;  it's  so  enterpris- 
ing and  very  often  intellectual.  Besides  people 
are  not  made  more  interesting  or  less  vulgar  by 
being  given  handles  to  their  names;  it's  a  great 
pity  the  wrong  people  take  them — they  only  look 
ridiculous;  and  plain  misters  have  done  most  for 
the  world.     Look  at  the  politicians,  they  do  their 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     l6l 

best  wojk  in  Lower  House,  when  they  are  past  it 
and  stupid  they  are  sent  to  the  Upper  one. 

Julia.     How  about  Uncle   Edward? 

Lady  S.  \With  a  certain  amount  of  uncon- 
scious pride.']  My  dear,  he  was  born  there;  that 
makes  a  difference.  I  was  very  much  amused  a 
year  ago  at  Montreux,  there  were  some  pushing 
people  and  Evelyn  Murison  who  has  a  stiff 
neck 

May.     Aunt  Sarah! 

Lady    S.    \_D  is  concerted.]    Yes,   my   dear,   your 
Mother  has  an  exceedingly  stiff  neck,  always  had. 
.     I  didn't  know  you  two  were  there — what 
are  you  doing — why  don't  you  go  for  a  walk.^ 

May.  Mr.  Vallide  is  waiting  for  Uncle  Ed- 
ward, who  wanted  a  talk  with  him. 

Lady  S.  [To  Robert.]  Why  are  you  going 
away  to-morrow  morning?  My  brother  asked  you 
to  stay  until  the  end  of  the  week,  didn't  he? 

Robert.  I  have  had  a  delightful  visit;  but  I'm 
afraid  I  must  get  back. 

Lady  S.  Oh— Why— Who  is  this? 
Enter  from  door  under  loggia  on  l.  Col.  Ends- 
LEiOH.  He  is  about  38  or  40,  a  distinguished, 
soldierly-looking  man.  A  little  grave  and 
slow  in  manner.  Robert  and  May  go  for- 
ward as  they   see  him. 

Julia.  [Evidently  taken  by  surprise.]  Frank 
— Colonel  Endsleigh,  when  did  you  come? 


162     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

[Sir  James  comes  forward, 

Endsleigh.  An  hour  ago.  I  have  been  hav- 
ing a  talk  with  Lord  Barnstaple  and  Lady  Ida. 
How  do  you  do,  Lady  Sarah?  The  old  enemy? 
[Pointing  to  the  stick  against  her  chair. ^ 

Lady  S.  My  only  lover,  you  should  say — it  is 
as  troublesome  as  your  sex  and  as  constant  as 
mine. 

Endsleigh.  How  do  you  do.  Sir  James? 
[Shaking  hands. 1 

Sir  J.  [Sulkily.]  How  do?  Is  Geoff  with 
you?     We  have  been  expecting  him  here. 

Endsleigh.  No.  I  have  come  for  him.  [Look- 
ing towards  May.] 

Julia.     That  is  Evelyn's  girl 

Endsleigh.  I  knew  her  mother  a  good  many 
years  ago.  [Shaking  hands  with  May.]  [To 
Robert,  nodding.]  You  were  just  off  when  I 
saw  you  last. 

Robert.     I  was.     Have  you  come  from  Paris? 

Endsleigh.     Yes. 

Sir  J.  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  at 
Alassio  ? 

Endsleigh.     An  hour   or  two.     The  train   for 
Genoa  stops  here  at  7:30 — I  go  by  it. 
Enter  Ida  from   loggia  door  on  l.,  stands  wait- 
ing a  moment,  then  she  stoops  and  speaks  to 
Lady  S. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     l63 

Sir  J.  [Evidently  satisfied.]  Why  hasn't 
Geoff  come? 

Endsleigh.      He   couldn't   very   well 

Lady  S.  [To  Ida  who  has  been  leaning  down 
to  her.]  Wants  me?  Is  anything  the  matter. 
[Tries  to  get  up.] 

Endsleigh.  Let  me.  [Goes  forward  and  helps 
her  with  her  stick ,  ^'c] 

Lady  S.  I  suppose  I  shall  know  soon  enough. 
[Ea;it  with  Endsleigh  into  the  house. 

Ida.  [To  Julia.]  Father  wants  you,  and 
cousin   James,   too. 

Sir  J.  [Stirring  himself  with  a  grunt.]  What 
is  it  all  about,  I  wonder? 

Julia.  [Lingers  behind  a  minute  with  Ida 
and  asJcs  in  a  low  voice.]  Has  Frank  Endsleigh 
come  for  you?     Is  that  it? 

Ida.      No.      He  has   been  sent  to  explain  why 

Geoff  is  not  coming  back.  [Exit  with  Julia. 

[Robert  and  May  left  alone  on  stage. 

May.  [Who  has  overheard.]  To  explain  why 
he  is  not  coming  back! 

Robert.      You   have  been   expecting  him? 

May.  I  didn't  know — I  thought  perhaps  he 
would  come.  Uncle  Edward  wanted  him.  [Locks 
up  at  the  ruin  on  the  mountain.]  This  is  the 
night  they  illuminate  the  church.  I  was  afraid 
you  wouldn't  see  it 


164.     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Robert.  The  Princess's  lover  never  saw  it. 
[Checks  himself.  All  through  this  interview  he 
should  heep  himself  well  in  hand."]  I  wish  we 
could   have   gone  to   Santa   Croce   again. 

May.     I  wish  it,  too. 

Robert.  [Pause.]  I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever 
know  each  other   again? 

May.  Know  each  other  again — of  course  we 
shall — why  we  have  been  friends — friends — these 
last  ten  days.  We  have  so  many  things  in  com- 
mon. 

Robert.  [Impatiently.']  Books  and  pictures 
and  music — and  the  same  Heaven  or  Hell  to 
go  to  when  we  die.  ~But  for  the  rest  our  ways 
in  this  world  lie  apart. 

May.     Are  we  never  to  meet  any  more? 

Robert.  Meet?  Of  course  we  shall  meet. 
We  shall  come  across  each  other  at  evening  par- 
ties, or  nod  from  the  stalls  of  a  theatre.  If  I 
get  in  for  Fieldborough  and  you  are  in  London 
perhaps  you  will  ask  me  to  a  Sunday  luncheon, 
or  if  you  are  at — what  is  the  Barnstaples'  place 
called — Court  Acres — for  a  Saturday  to  Mon- 
day. 

May.     I  shall  never  be  at  Court  Acres. 

Robert.  But  that  won't  be  knowing  each 
other.  And  yet  there  will  be  always  be  behind  us 
this  ten  days'  dream  at  Alassio. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     165 

May.  I  wish  we  could  take  things  out  of 
dreams  and  carry  them  away. 

Robert.  The  roots  of  most  things  lie  in 
them 

May.     And  this  time  here 


Robert.  Will  help  our  conjectures  in  the  fu- 
ture.— We  have  had   some  good  days? 

May.  Such  happy  ones.  [^Hurriedly,  as  if 
she  were  afraid  of  betraying  too  much.]  I  sim- 
ply love  this  place — and  all  the  paths  up  the 
mountains. 

Robert.  Do  you  remember  the  charcoal  burn- 
er's shed — where  you  told  me  about  your  mother, 
and  little  Dora  studying  art  in   Dresden.^ 

May.     She's  taller  than  I  am 

Robert.  And  Jack,  who  went  up  to  Sand- 
hurst last   October? 

May.  [Puzzled.]  I  always  feel  as  if  you 
knew  us. 

Robert.  I  do — in  my  thoughts.  I  know  ex- 
actly what  your  mother  looks   like. 

May.  [Shyly.]  Would  you  care  to  come  and 
see   her? 

Robert.  No!  [Quickly.]  1  will  wait — till 
I  have  done  more.  Perhaps  I  imagine  her 
younger  than  she  is  now — as  she  was  when  your 
father  died. 

May.     I  don't  think  she  has  altered  very  much. 


166     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Robert.     Do  you  remember  that  time? 

May.  Oh,  yes — so  well,  though  I  was  very 
little.  Aunt  Sarah  was  such  an  angel  to  us. 
I  shall  never  forget  how  she  consoled  me  on  my 
journey  to  Switzerland  when  I  lost  one  of  my 
white  mice [He  gives   a   little  start. 

Robert.     One  of  your  white  mice? 

May.  They  were  in  a  cage — and  I  carried 
them  all  the  way.  Once  at  a  station  buffet,  a 
waiter  opened  the  cage  door  and  didn't  fasten 
it  properly  perhaps — it  had  been  broken  and 
mended. 

Robert.     Of  course [Stops  abruptly. 

May.  [Looking  up  at  him  quickly  for  a  min- 
ute, then  going  on  unsuspiciously.]  One  of  them 
got  out  and  I  never  saw  it  again.  A  little  boy 
gave  them  to  me  who  went  to  Australia.  [Rob- 
ert turns  his  head.]  No,  it  was  Canada — your 
country.  ...  I  imagine  that  mouse  sometimes 
wandering  about  the  world  alone  just  as  he  may 
be  doing. 

Robert.  Do  you  think  the  mouse  has  lived  so 
long,  or  that  he  is  as  little  as  you  remember 
him? 

May.  Don't  be  cynical — I  like  to  imagine  that 
the  world  is  a  fairy  story;  so  let  me  be  senti- 
mental about  my  white  mouse  and  Thomas. 

Robert.     Thomas  ? 

May.     That  was  the  little  boy's  name. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     167 

Lady  S.     [Heard  off.]     I  am  going  out  again. 

Robert.  [Quickli^.']  Couldn't  we  go  round 
the  garden? 

May.  Not  now.  [Half  to  herself.]  I  must 
see  Colonel  Endsleigh.  [Then  quickly.]  I  think 
he  brings  me  a  message  from  Geoff.  I  wrote 
to  him  the  other  day,  that  is  why  I  told  you  I 
should  never  be  at  Court  Acres — I  mean  living 
there. 

Enter  Lady  S.,  and  Lord  B.,  and  then  Julia, 
from  door  under  loggia. 

Lord  B.     Well,  May? 

May.     Where   is    Colonel   Endsleigh? 

Lord  B.  In  the  drawing-room.  I  wish  you 
would  go  to  him,  my  dear. 

[Exit  May  quickly  into  the  house. 
[Robert    looks    after   her   for   a   moment, 
then    turns    towards    the    garden    and 
exit  r. 

Lady  S.  Give  me  your  arm,  Edward,  I  should 
like  to  try  and  walk  a  little.  [They  go  on  a  few 
steps;  she  is  evidently  in  pain.]  No,  I  can't  do 
it.  [Sits  down  on  seat  r.]  Ah!  [With  relief.] 
This  is   very  surprising  news! 

Lord  B.     Astounding! 

Lady  S.      [Drily.]      Evelyn  won't  be  pleased. 

Lord   B.      Neither   am    I. 

Lady  S.  The  money  will  be  useful — Court 
Acres  could  absorb  a  good  deal. 


168     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lord  B.  We  have  never  done  that  sort  of 
thing,  and — [as  Sir  J.  enters^ — I  agree  with 
Caxton,  money  is  overrated. 

Sir  J.  Everything  is  overrated,  except  the 
right  things. 

Lord  B.  It's  probably  a  sudden  infatuation 
— 'pon  my  word,  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  tell  May. 

Julia.  She  won't  break  her  heart,  Uncle  Ed- 
ward. 

Sir  J.  [Meaningly.^  I  think  she  finds  Mr. 
Robert   Vallide  very   agreeable. 

Lord  B.  Vallide?  Oh  no,  that's  absurd. 
[^Pause.']  But  she  has  talked  to  him  a  good  deal 
now  I  think  of  it. 

Sir  J.     Why  shouldn't  she? 

Lady  S.  [Drily.']  I  don't  think  her  mother 
would  like  it.  As  I  said  an  hour  ago,  unfortu- 
nately in  the  young  man's  hearing — she  is  a  very 
stiff-necked  woman. 

Julia.  We  don't  know  any  one  belonging  to 
him — except  his  uncle,  of  course — but  he's  very 
clever. 

Lord  B.  Oh,  yes,  clever  enough  to  be  Prime 
Minister  one  day,  and  as  for  money — still,  you 
know 

Lady  S.  Evelyn  is  a  difficult  woman  to  cope 
with.  There  were  some  people  at  Montreux  one 
winter — rich,  and  only  occasionally  vulgar,  they 
had  a  house  in  Park  Lane 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     169 
Lord  B.     Of  course 


Lady  S.  I  believe  it  has  become  rather  a  low 
neighbourhood  ? 

Lord  B.  [Humouring  her.]  A  combination 
of   Houndsditch   and   Throgmorton   Street. 

Lady  S.  Well^  it's  gone  down.  But  nothing 
would  induce  Evelyn  to  call  upon  them,  she  said 
they  were  upstarts. 

Lord  B.  Quite  right.  She  has  her  own  views 
and  sticks  to  them. 

Lady  S.  And  she  would  no  more  let  her  daugh- 
ter marry  young  Vallide  than  she  could   fly. 

Lord  B.     No — I  expect  not. 

Sir  J.  Humph!  he's  not  a  fool,  might  do 
worse;   where   is   Endsleigh? 

Julia.  Talking  to  May.  I  think  he  has  a 
message   from  Geoff. 

Enter  Robert  from  garden  r.  crosses  stage 
to  go  into  the  house. 

Lord  B.  [To  Robert.]  Oh,  Vallide!  I 
wanted  you — we  might  have  a  few  minutes.     You 

start   early   to-morrow   and 

[Lady  S.  makes  a  movement  as  if  in  pain. 
What's  the  matter — a  twinge? 

Lady  S.  A  horrible  twinge.  [Gets  up  from 
seat.]      I'll  go  to  that  chair. 

Robert.     Let  me  help  you. 

[Robert    takes    her    to    chair   on    loggia, 
Julia  helps. 


170     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Julia.     I  am  afraid  you  are  in  horrid  pain. 

Lady   S.      I'm  in   damnable  pain. 

Lord    B.      My    dear    Sarah — tut — tut — tut — 


Lady  S.  My  dear  Edward,  I'm  making  a  plain 
statement  to   describe   a   fact. 

Robert.  And  I'm  sure  it  gives  you  some  re- 
lief. Lady   Sarah. 

Lady  S.  Of  course  it  does.  You  are  a  very  sen- 
sible young  man,  and  my  brother  says  you  will 
be  Prime  Minister  one  day. 

Robert.     Lord  Barnstaple  is  much  too  kind. 

Julia.  [jTo  Lady  S.]  You  had  much  better 
come  in  and  take  your  dose.  [Turning  to  Sir  J.] 
Will  you  help  her,  James?  Uncle  Edward  wants 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Vallide. 

Sir  J.     Lean  on  me — there  you  are. 

[Ea;it  Lady  Sarah  into  house  with  Julia. 
Sir  J.,  Robert,  and  Lord  B.  left  alone 
on  stage. 

Lord  B.  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Vallide,  that 
I  had  a  letter  from  headquarters  to-day  and  the 
Carlton  highly  approves.  In  fact,  everything  is 
before  you;  you  have  only  to  reach  out  your 
hand. 

Robert.      I   can   never   thank   you   enough. 

Lord  B.  [Kind,  but  firm.]  My  dear  fellow, 
I  am  very  glad  if  I've  been  of  any  use  to  you. 
[Pause.]      By    the    way,    there's — er — something 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     171 

else  I  want  to  say — a  personal  matter — it  seems  to 
me  that  you  have  had  a  good  many  talks  with  my 
niece  since  you  came. 

Robert.  \^Surprised  and  a  little  stiffly.^  Miss 
Murison  has  delightful  views  about — the  things 
in  which  most  people  are  interested. 

Lord  B.  Quite  so.  Shakespeare  and  the  musi- 
cal glasses — I  believe  young  people  discuss  them 
still — but  under  different  names.  She  is  a  charm- 
ing girl  and  no  doubt  she  will  make  a  great  mar- 
riage. Her  mother — who  is  a  very  ambitious 
woman — would  never  consent  to  anything  else, 
she   expects   it  in   fact. 

Robert.     I  quite  understand. 

Lord  B.  When  you  came  I  told  you  that  I 
hoped  some  day  she  and  my  dear  boy  Geoff  would 
be  everything  to  each  other 

Robert.  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  have 
taken   care   never   to   forget  it 

Lord  B.  I'm  sure  of  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  asked  her  to  marry  him,  but — they're  cousins, 
which  prevents  things  from  being  so  romantic  as 
they  ought  to  be — at  least  that's  her  idea — and 
- — to  cut  it  short  he  is  engaged  to  an  American 
girl — pretty,  Endsleigh  says,  very  much  in  love 
with  him,  and  an  immense  fortune  which  will 
be  useful  of  course — useful — and — well  it  can't 
be  helped. 


172     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Robert.  [Brimming  over  with  delight  but 
trying  to  conceal  it.]  I  congratulate  you,  she  is 
certain  to  be  delightful. 

Lord  B.  You're  very  kind — but  how  do  you 
know? 

Robert.  Americans  are  always  delightful. 
Depend   upon   it,    she's   charming. 

[Holds  out  his  hand  unconsciously.     Lord 

B.  shakes  it  heartily. 

Lord   B.      I   hope  you're  right.      .     .      .     And 

you  don't  think  she  has  mistaken  him  for  a  duke? 

One   must   make    that    little   joke    since    she's    an 

American. 

Robert.  [Enthusiastically."]  She  takes  him 
for  what  he  is — a  gallant  young  soldier  and  the 
only    son    of    a    distinguished    statesman. 

Lord  B.  Thank  you,  Vallide.  By  the  way, 
it's  no  secret^ — [looking  at  his  watch] — Endsleigh 
is  going  on  to  Genoa  at  7:30,  he  won't  let  us 
make  dinner  any  earlier  for  him — says  he  would 
rather  dine  in  the  train. 

[Turns  to  go,  his  back  is  to  Robert,  who 
stands  stock  still  with  his  chin  in  his 
hand.  Ida  comes  to  door  under  log- 
gia but  he  doesn't  see  her.  With  a 
sudden  start  he  throws  his  hat  into  the 
air. 
Ida.  [Running  out.'\  Mr.  Vallide,  what  is  the 
matter  ? 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     173 

Robert.       [Holding    out    his    hands    to    her.] 
Hurrah ! 

Ida.      [Laughing,  and  taking  them.']     Yes,  but 
why.-* 

[While  they  are  laughing.  May  comes  out 
on  to  the  loggia  followed  by  Sir  J., 
but  he  hangs  bach  and  is  not  noticed. 
Lord  B.  stops  to  talk  to  May.  Sir  J. 
joins  them. 
Robert.     [To  Ida.]     Ah! 

Ida.     Do  tell  me — what  it  is.     Are  you  Prime 
Minister    already } 

Robert.       Not     yet.        [Conildentially.]       But 
— Lord    Stratton   is   going  to   be   married. 

[She  stares  at  him,  then  evidently  comprehends. 
Ida.      But   you   told   me   at   the   Benson   Greys 

there  was  some  one — you  used  to  know 

Robert.      I    have   dreamt  of   her   all   my   life, 

but  now 

Ida.     No"w? 

Robert.     Now  I  am  awake. 
Ida.      [Puzzled.]     What  will  happen? 
Robert.      I   shall  know   when   I   have   been   in 
London    twenty-four    hours. 
Ida.     Oh,  you  are  a  riddle. 
Robert.      Of   which   I   long   to   know   the   an- 
swer. 

[Lord  B.  drarvs  back  as  if  he  were  speak- 
ing  confidentially    to    Julia,    mho    has 


174.     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

just    re-entered   and   joined   the   group 
at  the  loggia.  Sir  James  and  May  saun- 
ter out  into  the  garden. 
Robert.     [To  Ida  significantly  looking  towards 
Sir  J.]      Take  him  away. 

[She  nods,  evidently  understanding. 

Ida.      [To   Sir   J.]      Cousin   Jim,   I   have  been 

trying  to  get  hold  of  you.     Let  us  go  down  the 

garden.       The    pepper-trees    and    the    laburnums 

are   so  lovely  in  the   twilight. 

Sir  J.  [Looks  round,  sees  that  Julia  and 
Lord  B.  are  together.  Hesitates.^  Oh — don't 
know  that  I  care  for  pepper-trees  and  labur- 
nums  

Ida.  And  the  little  banksia  roses  are  coming 
out  on  the  wall  by  the  sea.  We  might  go  for  five 
minutes  while  Colonel  Endsleigh  is  finishing  his 
talk   with   Aunt   Sarah — she   won't  let  me   get   a 

word  with  him 

[This    evidently    reassures    Sir    J.      Exit 
with  Ida  on  r.   down  garden. 
Lord  B.     [To  Julia.]     I'll  show  it  to  you  if 
you  like. 

[Exit  Lord  B.   by  loggia  into  house,  fol- 
lowed by  Julia. 
[Robert  and  May  left  alone  on  stage. 
Robert.      [The   twilight  is   evidently   coming.] 
It  seems  as  if  an  enchantment  had  fallen  again 
— ^just  as  it  did  the  first  evening 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     175 

[He  stops  and  they  look  at  each  other  em- 
barrassed. 

May.  [Half  hesitating.]  You  know  Geoff  is 
going  to  be  married? 

Robert.     I   know — it  is   splendid 

May.     Why  are  you  so  glad.'* 

Robert.  [His  restraint  has  vanished,]  Be- 
cause— because  I'm  devoted  to  Miss  Pippin. 

May.  To  Miss  Pippin!  You  are  altogether 
different — quite   suddenly. 

Robert.  The  world  is  altogether  different — 
quite  suddenly.  The  door  of  Heaven  isn't  open; 
but  it's  creaking  on  its   hinges. 

May.  Is  it  because  of  the  letter  Uncle  Ed- 
ward had   from   Downing   Street.'' 

Robert.     No. 

May.     He  thinks  you'll  do  all  manner  of  things. 

Robert.  I'll  attempt  them — I'll  make  for 
them — for  the  sake  of — her  at  whose  feet  they 
will  be  laid. 

May.  [Slowly.]  Who  is  she — mayn't  I  know? 
I've  told  you   so  many  things 

Robert.  I  want  to  tell  you — everything.  But 
not  yet.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  you  understood 
without  any  telling,  ...  I  long  to  speak, 
but  I  mustn't — I  can't.  It  isn't  lack  of  courage 
— it  is  something  better  than  courage  that  holds 
me  back.     There  is  an  obstacle 

May.     An  obstacle! 


176     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Robert.      Yes — but  in   England 

May.     In  England? 

Robert.  It  may  be  swept  away. — I  don't 
know — I  only  know  that  I  long  to  see  you  al- 
ways— I  keep  breaking  my  resolutions — these  lit- 
tle hands  draw  me  on  in  spite  of  myself.  I 
daren't  say  any  more — but  I  am  going  to-mor- 
row on  my  life's  quest.     If  we  never  meet  again, 

I   shall  think  of  you — dream  of  you 

May.     [In  a  low  voice.]     And  I  of  you. 
Robert.      [^Hesitates,  then  with  an  evident  de- 
termination  to   control  himself.']      Let  us  go  and 
look  for  the  others. 

[They  turn  towards  the  path  r.  down  the 
garden,  stop  for  an  instant  and  look 
up  at  the  ruined  church  on  the  moun- 
tain. With  an  irresistible  impulse, 
Robert  turns  to  May,  takes  her  hands, 
and  says  in  a  low  passionate  voice 
My  princess — my  princess — as  long  as  I  live — 
remember  that. 

[Robert  and  May  disappear.     The  stage 

is    empty.      Lord    B.,    Endsleigh,    and 

Julia    come    through    the    loggia    door 

into  the  garden. 

Lord  B.     [Looking  round.]     Where'  have  they 

all    gone  ? 

Julia.  They're  all  in  the  garden.  I  saw 
May's  white  dress  disappearing.  [Looks  r. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     177 

Lord  B.  I  want  to  see  Ida  for  a  moment. 
I'll   go   after   them. 

[Exit  by  the  way  the  others  went. 
[Julia   and  Endsleigh   left  alone  on   the 
stage. 

Julia.  [To  Endsleigh.']  Why  does  he  want 
to  see  Ida? 

Ends.  I  don't  know — something  about  GeoiF, 
I  suppose. 

[They  sit  down  and  look  at  each  other  for 
a  moment  on  seat  l.  centre  by  loggia. 

Julia.  This  is  the  first  time  we've  had  a  word 
alone  since  you  came   from  India. 

Ends.  I  know — and  I've  been  home  three 
months.  Your  husband's  a  good  chap,  but  he 
stalks  you  in  such  a  sportsmanlike  manner — 
when  I'm  near,  at  any  rate — that  I  can't  get  a 
word  in. 

Julia.     We  were  such  friends  in  old  days 

Ends.  I  don't  think  he  wants  us  to  be  friends 
now. 

Julia.  Why  shouldn't  we  be?  I  think  you 
are    rather    fond    of — of — Ida 

Ends.  I  asked  her  to  marry  me,  but  she 
wouldn't — didn't  think  it  good  enough,  I  sup- 
pose. 

Julia.  [In  a  voice  she  can  hardly  make 
steady.]  You  told  her  that  you  had  cared  for 
some  one  before — that  you  had  cared  for  years. 


178     THOMAS   AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Ends.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  tell 
her. 

Julia.  You  did  care.^  I  thought  it  couldn't 
be  true 


Ends.  It  is — ^though  I  don't  like  owning  up 
to  you. 

Julia.     Why?   I've   always   wondered 

Ends.  Well,  you  see,  I  was  awfully  fond  of 
you  once.  I  think  you  liked  me  a  bit,  too.  Do 
you  remember  how  we  used  to  pull  about  on  the 
river?  And  the  walks  up  and  down  the  walled 
garden   at  Hampden   Court. 

Julia.     Yes. 

Ends.  You  were  awfully  pretty — and  it 
doesn't  seem  to  me  that  you've  altered  much. 
There  was  a  wet  day  at  the  end — ^when  we  looked 
at  the  pictures. 

Julia.     And  sat  in  the  window  seat. 

Ends.  That's  it.  I  believe  I  was  fonder  of 
you  that  day  than  of  anything  in  the  world.  Lady 
Caroline  was  in  the  garden  and  saw  our  heads 
through  the  window.  It  was  only  four  days  be- 
fore I  went  away  .  .  .  and  she  gave  me  a 
talking-to  before  I  left  that  night. 

Julia.     Aunt  Caroline  did? 

Ends.  [^Nods.^  She  said  you  didn't  care  for 
me  in  that  way — that  you  were  ambitious  and  I 
was   a   pauper 

Julia.     O — ^h ! 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     179 

Ends.  I  can  tell  you  I  was  pretty  hard  hit  for 
the  first  few  days  on  board.  .  .  .  There  was 
a  girl  going  out  to  Bombay,  five  years  older  than 
I  was,  and  she  took  me  in  hand.  It  was  about 
the  only  thing  that  could  have  cured  me. 

Julia.     And  it  did  cure  you? 

Ends.  In  ten  days  I  was  her  abject  slave. 
At  Calcutta  and  Simla — by  some  extraordinary 
luck  we  were  always  at  the  same  place — we  spent 
weeks  together.  It  was  an  infatuation,  I  sup- 
pose; but  it  overwhelmed  me  like  a  wave.  I 
fancy  it  amused  her  a  good  deal.  She  married 
Galsted,  that  man  who  got  a  peerage  the  other 
day  for  giving  a  public  park  somewhere. 

Julia.      Have   you   seen   her   since? 

Ends.  Yes — she  would  have  liked  to  fool  me 
a  little  more,  I  think.  She  didn't  mean  any  harm, 
|but  she  is  the  sort  of  woman  who  likes  to  have 
a  current  of  sentiment  running  through  her  life. 

Julia.  [Cynically.'\  And  you  forgot  me  en- 
tirely ? 

Ends.  No;  but  I  jammed  you  down  and 
stamped  on  you  whenever  you  tried  to  come  up. 
When  I  met  Ida,  a  few  months  ago,  she  had  a 
look  of  you  in  the  eyes  which  sent  me  raking 
over  the  old  ground.  And  she's  an  awfully  good 
chum. 

Julia.  If  you  want  to  marry  her,  you  must 
tell  her  that  you  love  her. 


180     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Ends.  [Slowly.']  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do; 
but  it  seemed — like  taking  up  the  old  story. 

Julia.  [With  a  bitter  laugh.]  Oh,  you  men 
are  so  incomprehensible.  Long  ago  I  thought  you 
cared  for  me — I  was  certain  you  did — all  those 
hours   on  the   river,  and  in  the   garden,   and  the 

things    you    said .      I    was    certain — certain — 

certain  that  you  cared. 

Ends.     I  did. 

Julia.  And  yet  Aunt  Caroline  made  you  be- 
lieve that  I  wanted  money;  and  you  went  away 
without  a  word,  and  told  a  girl  on  board  the 
boat  about  me. 

Ends.  She  saved  me  from  blowing  my  brains 
out. 

Julia.  And  you've  been  infatuated  with  her 
more  or  less  all  your  life.  Now  you  want  to 
marry  Ida 

Ends.  Let  me  explain.  I  loved  you  honestly 
enough,  but  I  was  hot-headed.  If  I  hadn't  done 
something  I  might  have  gone  headlong  to  the 
devil. 

Julia.  So  you  made  love  to  a  woman  five  years 
older  than  yourself 

Ends.  Well,  but  after  all  you  seem  to  have 
been  happy  enough 

Julia.  It  isn't  fair  to  a  man  when  you  bear 
his  name  to  go  about  looking  dissatisfied;  IVe 
tried  to  play  fair — — 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     181 

Ends.  Caxton  has  twenty  thousand  a  year.  I 
couldn't  ha\x  done  you  as   well  as  that. 

Julia.  [Almost  without  knowing  it.^  What 
is  the  good  of  gold  when  you  want  bread — 
[Checking  herself.]      Shall  you  ask  Ida  again? 

Ends.  I  couldn't  to-day.  [with  a  change  of 
voice]  the  sight  of  you  always  pulls  the  strings  of 
everything  that  is  strongest  in  me. 

[He  stoops  suddenly  and  hisses  her  hand 
which    is    resting    on    the    back    of   the 
seai,  his  face  is  three-quarters  towards 
garden,   hers  turned  away   from  it. 
[Robert   appears  from  garden   right;  the 
two    men   look    at    each   other   for   one 
second   and   Robert   retreats.     A    min- 
ute later  his   voice   is   heard  as   if  ad- 
vancing. 
Robert.      All   right,   Sir   James,   Endsleigh   is 
here. 

[Julia   rises   quickly,  goes   towards   house, 

hut  stops  as  Sir  James  appears.     She 

and  Endsleigh  stand  facing  him  from 

different  points. 

Sir  J.     [Looking  from  one  to  the  other.}     Eh 

— interrupted  a  talk? 

Ends.  [Rather  stiffly.]  Lady  Caxton  and  I 
are  old,  old  friends. 

Sir  J.  I  am  aware  of  it.  Sorry  to  be  in 
the  way,  but 


182     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Julia.  [Haughtily.]  You  needn't  apologise 
— we  had  finished  what  we  had  to  say. 

Enter  Lord  B.  from  the  garden,  evidently  hur- 
ried. 
Lord  B.     Oh,  there  you  are,  Endsleigh.     You 
have   only   ten   minutes — barely   that,   unless   you 
stay  till  to-morrow? 

Ends.  I  fear  not.  Where  are  the  young 
ladies?      I   want   to   say   good-bye  to   them. 

Lord  B.  [Looking  round.]  I  thought  they 
were  here.  But  there's  no  time — I  am  going  with 
you   to  the   station.      [To  Robert.]      Come  too? 

[Robert  hesitates. 
Ends.     Yes  do,  Vallide. 
Robert.     I  will,  if  you  wish  it. 
Ends.     Good-bye,  Lady  Caxton.     I  don't  know 
if    we    shall    meet    again    before    I    go    back    to 

India.     But  if  I  am  in  London 

Sir  J.     [Firmly.]     We  shall  probably  be  away. 
Julia.     [To  Endsleigh.]     And  you  will  have 
a  great  deal  to  do. 

Lord  B.  Come — come — you'll  lose  that  train. 
It's  nearer  by  the  garden. 

[Turns  towards  extreme  left. 
Julia.     Good-bye. 

[Shakes  hands  with  Endsleigh  and  turns 

away. 
[Exeunt  Robert,  Lord  B.,  and  Endsleigh 
by  garden. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     183 

[Julia  and  Sir  James  alone. 
Sir   J.     What  were  you   talking  to   Endsleigh 
about  ? 

Julia.      [Defiantly.]      I  shall  not  tell  you. 
Sir    J.      Oh! — well,    I    can    take    care    of    my 


own- 


JuLiA.  [Bitterly.]  Take  care  of  your  own? 
You  mean  that  you  are  always  watching  me — 
listening — spying  upon  me. 

Sir   J.      That's  rather  a  strong  word. 

Julia.  Yes,  too  strong,  perhaps,  but  you  seem 
to  be  always  suspecting  me — and  the  everlasting 
togetherness  of  marriage,  as  you  interpret  it,  is 
terrible. 

Sir  J.     What  do  you  mean.f* 

Julia.     I  mean  that  I  want  to  be  free,  to  be 
trusted,   not   to   be   perpetually   stalked. 
Can't    you    understand    that    every    human    being 
longs  to  be  alone  sometimes.     Oh,  the  luxury  of 
it! 

Sir  J.     You  weren't  alone  just  now. 

Julia.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  [Soft- 
ening.] I  don't  mean  to  be  brutal,  but  I  am  dis- 
tracted— go  away  now,  James.  [Holding  out  her 
hand,  half  entreating.]  Let  me  be  by  myself. 
[Turns  towards  house  and  half  hesitates,  then 
goes  back  towards  middle  of  stage.]  And  I  want 
to  go  back  to  England,  I  can't  bear  this  any 
longer 


184     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Sir   J.      I'll  take  you  back  to-morrow. 
Julia.     Take  me  back — oh,  of  course!     Go  in 
and  leave  me — now  at  any  rate. 

[He  turns  towards  the  house,  and  stops  as 
Lady  S.  hobbles  out  on  to  the  loggia, 
making  business  with  her  stick,  8^c. 
Sir  J.  helps  to  seat  her  in  her  chair, 
gives  a  sort  of  grunt,  looks  back  at 
Julia,  then  exit. 
Lady  S.     Thank  you. 

[Julia,    standing    in    the    middle    of    the 
stage,  looks  in  the  direction  Endsleigh 
has  gone,   and  gives   a  sigh   of  relief. 
[Lady   S.   pretends  not   to  see   her  for   a 
moment. 
Enter  Servant  with  a  telegram. 
Servant.     [To  Lady  S.]     It's  a  telegram  for 
Mr.  Vallide,  my  lady. 

Lady  S.  [Crossly.]  Well,  you  must  find  him 
— where  is  he? 

Julia.  [With  a  start,  going  towards  Lady  S.] 
He  has  gone  to  see  Colonel  Endsleigh  off.  [To 
Servant.]  He  can  only  be  at  the  turn  of  the 
road.  [Looking  left.]  You  might  run  after  him, 
perhaps  it's  important — then  he  can  answer  it 
from  the  station. 

[Exit    Servant.       Julia,    with    a    quick 
passionate     movement,    throws    herself 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     185 

on  her  knees  beside  the  chair,  and  puts 
her  arms   round  Lady   Sarah. 

Julia.    Aunt  Sarah,  I  want  you,  I  want  you  so. 

Lady  S.  He  hasn't  been  making  love  to 
you? 

Julia.  No,  he  never  cared,  and  Aunt  Caroline 
spoke  to  him — before  he  went  to  India. 

Lady  S.     I  knew  she  had 

Julia.  He  told  a  girl  on  board  the  boat  about 
me,  and  fell  in  love  with  her.  He  has  been  in- 
fatuated with  her  more  or  less  all  his  life  till 
lately.  With  her — not  with  me — ^with  her.  [-4 
sort  of  hysterical  laugh."]  Oh,  Aunt  Sarah,  what 
fools  women  are,  and  yet  he  was  good  and  hon- 
est— at  least  that. 

Lady  S.  I  have  no  patience  with  good  men, 
they  are  always  stupid.  My  dear — [soothing 
Julia] — I  knew  she'd  spoken  to  him  that  night; 
he  was  a  young  idiot.  [Pause. 

Julia.  [In  a  rvhisper.]  I'm  frightened  for 
May. 

Lady  S.     For  May? 

Julia.     It  may  be  the  same  story  over  again. 

Lady  S.  [Stifling  a  twinge  of  gout  which 
makes  her  wince.]      What  do  you  mean? 

Julia.  She  has  been  falling  in  love  with  Mr. 
Vallide;  I've  seen  it,  and  Evelyn  would  never 
hear  of  it,  you  know 


186     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Lady  S.     Never! 
Julia.     Besides 


Lady  S.     Besides  what? 

Julia.  There's  some  one  else — he  told  Ida 
about  her — some  one  he  has  thought  of  all  his 
life. 

Lady  S.  [Thoughtfully. ~\  I  believe  he  cares 
for  May — I  saw  his  face — I  am  old,  but  I  know 
the  signs. 

Julia.  It  may  be  just  the  glamour  of  Italy 
and  the  Spring,  as  it  was  the  glamour  of  the 
river  and  the  walled  garden  at  Hampden  Court 
that  I  mistook.  Frank  didn't  care — and  look  at 
Geoff,  he  thought  he  cared  about  May,  for  years 
— and  now  this  American  girl. 

Lady  S.  Young  men  ought  to  be  hanged,  in 
rows.  As  for  May,  as  you  say,  her  mother  would 
never  hear  of  it.  The  young  man  might  as  well 
care  for  the  moon,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned. 

[Ida  and  May  appear  from  end  of  gar- 
den  on  r. 
Julia.     Hush,  here  she  is. 

[Julia  stands  up  quickly  in  the  shadow 
under  the  loggia  by  Lady  S.*s  chair 
with  her  hack  to  the  house.  Ida  goes 
forward  towards  loggia.  May  remains 
in  centre  of  stage,  looking  up  at  the 
ruined  church  on  the  mountain.  Then 
sits,  R.     The  twilight  deepens. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     187 

Ida.  [To  Julia,  laughing.]  They*ve  gone, 
haven't  they?  I  didn't  want  to  say  good-bye  to 
Colonel  Endsleigh. 

Lady  S.     [Sharply.]     Oh — why  not,  pray? 

Julia.     Why  not? 

Ida.  [In  a  low  tone  to  Julia.]  If  dumb 
men  can't  talk,  they  can  sometimes  write.  I've 
had   a  letter  from  one  this  evening. 

May.  Isn't  it  splendid  that  they  light  up  the 
church  to-night?     Mr.  Vallide  will  see  it. 

Julia.  [Going  towards  her.]  The  Princess 
lighted  it  up,  and  waited  for  her  lover;  but  he 
never  came. 

May.  [Dreamily.]  Perhaps  their  spirits  are 
stealing  back  to  it  now,  through  and  through  the 
shadows 

Julia.  What  does  it  matter?  They  are  not 
human  any  more. 

[Lord  B.  appears  at  door  of  loggia  evi- 
dently rather  excited,  and  speaking 
presumably  to  a  servant  behind  him. 

Lord  B.  Send  them  all  on  at  once.  [To  every 
one.]      I've  got  some  news  for  you. 

Ida.     News ! 

Lord  B.  Vallide  has  gone.  Had  a  telegram 
just  as  we  started. 

May.      [Getting  up   quickly.]      Gone! 

Lord  B.  Gone  on  with  Endsleigh  to  catch 
the  express  for  Rome.      Uncle  there  down  with 


188     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

fever — wants  his  nephew  to  take  him  back  to 
Canada — sails  from  Genoa  early  next  week. 

May.     To  Canada? 

Lord  B.  It's  the  deuce.  Vallide  feels  he 
ought  to  go.  I  was  to  tell  you,  and  say  good-bye 
to  you  all.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  he  has  no 
idea  when  he  will  be  back.  The  uncle  may  be  ill 
for  a  long  time,  and  keep  him  over  there.  I'd 
made  all  sorts  of  plans  with  him  for  next  week 
in  London — very  tiresome. 

Lady  S.  {^Drops  her  stich;  he  picks  it  up  and 
gives  it  to  her."]     Humph! 

May.     To  Canada! 

Lord   B.      Awkward,   isn't   it?      You   see    \To 

Lady   S.]      if   he    goes What  is   it,   another 

twinge?  [^Arranges  her  cushions,  ^c. 

Julia  [Going  closer  to  May.]  Did  he  tell 
you  he  loved  you? 

May.  {In  a  whisper."]  No — ^but  he  does.  I 
know  he  does. 

Julia.     There  is  some  one  else? 

May.  No!  there  is  no  one  else.  ...  I 
can't  believe  that  he  is  gone 

Julia.  {Almost  in  a  rvhisper.]  He'll  never 
come  back.  It  is  always  the  same  story.  He 
will  never,  never  come  back. 

Lady  S.  [To  Lord  B.]  What  did  he  say? 
Was  he  upset? 

Lord  B.     Yes,  a  good  deal,  but — I  say!    Look 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     189 

at  the  ruin!  [They  all  look  up  at  the  ruined 
church  on  the  mountain,  which  is  illuminated.'] 
Pity  Vallide  isn't  here.  He  spoke  of  it  the  last 
thing.     He  wanted  to  see  it. 

May.  [Almost  staggering.]  The  Princess's 
lover  never  savr  it — he  never  saw  it  lighted  up. 

Julia.  He  never  came  back.  [Soft  music] 
Listen.  They  are  chanting  a  ghostly  mass — 
a  mass  for  the  dead.  [A  soft  mass  is  heard  in 
the  distance — very  faintly.  Whispers.]  He 
never  came  back ! 

May.     Julia!     [Staggers  towards  seat.] 

Curtain. 


ACT   IV 

Time. — Three  weeks  later. 

Scene. — A  sitting-room  in  Mrs.  Murison's  house 
on  Campden  Hill.  A  pretty  room  with 
chintzes,  S^c,  {obviously  on  first  not  ground- 
floor),  fireplace  r.,  with  door  same  side  lower 
down.  Door  l.:  At  the  back  facing  the  stage 
two  mullioned  windows,  square  paned  and 
pretty.  When  open  they  show  trees  in  blos- 
som in  the  garden,  laburnums,  8^c.,  between 
the  windows  there  is  a  little  white  bookshelf. 

When  the  Curtain  draws  up  Mrs.  Murison,  Lord 
Barnstaple,  and  Lady  Sarah  Stratton  are 
discovered. 

Lord  B.  [Looking  round.']  I  think  you've 
done  very  well,  Evelyn.  It's  an  extremely  pleas- 
ant house. 

Mrs.  M.     This  is  May's  own  little  sitting-room. 

Lady  S.  When  she  is  married  it  will  do  for 
Dora — Edward,  we  ought  to  go. 

Mrs.  M.  Won't  you  wait  and  see  Julia  ?  She'll 
be  down  directly.  James  is  coming  for  her  at 
half-past  three. 

Lord  B.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  don't  know 
191 


192     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

what  happened  between  them  at  Alassio — [To 
Mrs.  M.]      Do  you? 

Lady  S.  I  can  tell  you,  my  dear  Edward, 
Julia  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him  for  a  fortnight. 
All  women  want  to  get  rid  of  men  sometimes — 
but  we  can't  make  them  believe  it. 

Lord  B.  She  could  have  stayed  quietly  in 
Eaton  Square,  he  hasn't  been  in  London. 

Lady  S.  But  she  wanted  to  get  away  not  only 
from  James  Caxton,  but  from  everything  that 
was  his — to  think  out  things  and  set  her  life 
straight. 

Lord  B.  Well,  I  give  it  up — something  went 
wrong,  Julia  insisted  on  bringing  May  back  to 
her  mother — pretended  she  wanted  her.  Cax- 
ton came  as  far  as  Dover  with  them,  then  went 
off  to  Fieldborough  and  sulked. 

Mrs.  M.  He  has  written  to  her — they  are  go- 
ing home  together.  .  .  .  You've  not  told  me 
anything   about   Ida — and   Frank   Endsleigh. 

Lady  S.  He  has  gone  to  Sicily — till  he  goes 
back  to  India. 

Lord  B,  There's  no  idea  of  anything  between 
them.  He's  too  old.  Teddy  Haston  is  always 
about  the   house   now — the  youth  has   merit. 

Mrs.  M.  His  people  are  extremely  nice.  [To 
Lord  B.]  You  will  be  very  lonely  if  she  marries 
too.  Uncle  Edward. 

Lord  B.     Well — no  doubt  we  shall  see  a  great 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     193 

deal   of   Geoff   and   his   American   young   lady — 
who  has  charming  manners. 

Lady  S.  But  her  mother  is  tiresome — I  knew 
she  would  be. 

Lord  B.  She'll  go  back  to  America;  and  the 
turbulence  of  the  Atlantic  settles  many  difficulties. 

Lady  S.     The  girl's  pretty 

Mrs.   M.     I  hear  she's  lovely. 

Lord   B.      Well,   you'll   be   able   to   judge    for 
yourself  this  afternoon.     They  are  coming  to  see 
you — but  he  told  me  to  say  he  was  afraid  they 
could  not  get  here  till  half -past  five. 
Enter  May. 

May.     Julia  will  be  down  in  ten  minutes 

Lord  B.     I  don't  think  we  can  wait. 
We  like  your  new  house.  May 

May.  And  my  little  sitting-room — [Loohing 
round. 

Lord  B.  It's  charming,  my  dear.  But  {look- 
ing at  her]  you  don't  look  as  well  as  you  did  at 
Alassio — how's  that.'' 

May.  It's  only  London.  [Goes  over  to  the 
book-shelf  between  the  rvindon^s.^  Italy  is  an 
enchanted  land 

Mrs.  M.  She  has  been  so  quiet  since  she  came 
back. 

May.     Do  you  like  my  book-shelf.  Aunt  Sarah? 

Lady  S.  Book-shelf.^  Oh,  yes,  I  notice  that 
that  is  one  of  the  modern  affectations.    Girls  must 


194    THOMAS   AND    THE    PRINCESS 

have  little  book-shelves  now — painted  white — full 
of  little  books,  nicely  bound. 

May.  \_Laughing.]  Modern  poets — precious 
essays — pocket  editions  of  the  classics,  and  some- 
times   we    read    them.      [With    a    twinkle    in    her 

Lord  B.  My  dear,  you  are  growing  cynical. 
[Looks  at  her  curiouslyS\  Have  you  heard  from 
Vallide? 

Mrs.  M.  Why  should  May  hear  from  Mr.  Val- 
lide.? 

Lord  B.  I  should  say  it's  not  unlikely — they 
were  great  friends. 

May.  Do  you  know  where  he  is,  Uncle  Ed- 
ward .f* — Is   he   coming   back   from   Canada? 

Lord  B.  He  hasn't  gone  to  Canada.  His 
uncle  is  much  better  and  sailed  two  days  ago. 
Vallide  arrived  in  London  this  morning. 

Mrs.  M.  [Pleasantly. ']  Who  is  this  Mr.  Vallide? 

Lord  B.  The  new  candidate  for  Fieldborough ; 
we  all  liked  him  very  much  at  Alassio. 

Lady  S.  I  understand  that  he'll  be  Prime  Min- 
ister some  day. 

Lord  B.  He's  very  well  thought  of,  I  can 
tell  you 

Mrs.  M.    Yes,  but  who  is  he? 

Lord  B.  He  is  the  nephew  of  a  man  I  met  in 
Canada — ^who  did  a  great  deal  for  education — 
and    designed   a    few    railways — a    millionaire   of 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     195 

course — the  young  man  came  over  here  and  was 
my  private  secretary  when  I  was  in  office. 

Lady  S.  He's  an  Englishman — but  we  don't 
know  who  his  people  are — or  whether  he  has 
any 

Mrs.  M.  I  see — pushing  himself  to  the  front 
with  the  help  of  his  uncle's  money — and  careful 
to  say  nothing  about  his  antecedents  like  those 
people  at  Montreux 

May.  Mother,  you  mustn't  say  that!  You 
can't  think  how  delightful  he  is — how  simple — 
and  clever — and  well-bred 

Mrs.  M.  May!  [Surprised  and  as  if  she  sud- 
denly  suspected,] 

Lady  S.  [To  May.]  I  told  you  your  mother's 
neck  was  stiff. 

Mrs.  M.  Think  of  the  vulgarity  of  wealth  in 
these  days. 

Lady  S.  Not  at  all.  Think  of  the  comfort  of 
it.  The  vulgarity  of  many  people  who  possess  it 
is  unfortunate  of  course 

Mrs.  M.  All  the  money  seems  to  go  to  the  lower 
class  now,  it  pushes  them  in  everywhere. 

Lord  B.  That's  true — but  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  will  tone  things  down — give  him 
time,  he  doesn't  need  very  much. 

Lady  S.  Meanwhile  we  are  expected  to  invite 
the  postman  to  dinner  and  the  sweep  and  his  wife 
for  a  week-end.    But  you  needn't  agitate  yourself. 


196    THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

my  dear,  there  will  always  be  a  difference  of 
class,  though  the  fences  are  broken  that  used  to 
separate    them. 

Mrs.  M.  [To  Lord  B.]  Is  this  Mr.  Vallide  an 
educated  man — I  suppose  he  is  as  he  was  your 
secretary  ? 

Lord  B.  [(jrudgingly  but  with  conviction.] 
He's  a  man  we  shall  all  be  proud  to  know  some 
day. 

Mrs.  M.  [Uneasily.]  I  dislike  new  people — I 
can't  help  it. 

Lady  S.     They  make  an  excellent  variety  show. 

May.  Oh,  don't  say  that,  dear  Aunt  Sarah. 
The  race  started  fair,  with  everybody  equal.  But 
some  had  the  best  instincts,  and  made  for  the 
right  things,  and  kept  them  and  were  nourished 
on  them — and  others  had  to  take  what  was  left. 
I  suppose  that's  how  the  difference  of  class  came 
about.  And  though  the  difference  will  always  ex- 
ist there  must  be  new  people  added  to  the  best, 
or  the  best  will  die  out.  I  haven't  expressed  it 
very  well — but,  perhaps  you  know  what  I  mean. 
The  oldest,  grandest  house  has  to  be  propped  up 
with  new  material,  and  once  it  was  a  new  house 
too 

Lord  B.  May !  I  didn't  know  that  you  thought 
about  these  things — you  are  quite  eloquent. 

May.     Every  one  thinks. 

Lord  B.     I  wish  they  did,  my  dear,  the  world 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     197 

would  be  better  and  less  of  a  beer-garden.     Come, 
Sarah,  we  won't  wait  for  Julia. 

Lady  S.    [Going.]     We  shall  all  meet  in  Bru- 
ton  Street  to-night. 

Lord  B.   [To  May.]    I  won't  tell  Vallide  what 
you  said  about  him,  it  might  turn  his  head. 

Mrs.  M.   [To  Lady  S.]   Good-bye,  Aunt  Sarah. 
[Mrs.  Murison  rings  the  bell,  they  all  go 
towards  the  door. 
Lord  B.   [Looking  back  at  May.]   A  very  nice 
room  indeed,  my  dear,  good-bye. 

[Exeunt  Lady  S.  and  Lord  B. 
[Mrs.   Murison   and  May  return  into  the 
room.     May    stands    by    her    bookshelf. 
Mrs.   Murison  by  the  fireplace. 
May.    [After  a  pause.]     I   wish  we  had   some 
flowers,  mother — Geojff  and  Miss  Pippin  are  com- 
ing— ^the  drawing-room  is  very  bare. 

[Goes  to  piano  and  begins  to  play. 

Mrs.  M.    I'm  afraid  we  can't  send  for  any  now. 

[Business.]    What   is    that   tune   you    are    always 

playing 

May.     "  The  Distant  Shore." 

Enter  Servant,  with  a  note  on  tray,  gives 
it  to  Mrs.  Murison. 

[Ea;it  Servant. 
Mrs.   M.    [Opens   the  note,  looks  at  signature, 
says  to  herself].  Robert  Vallide! 

[Reads  it  and  stands  silently  thinking. 


198     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

[May  still  playing  very  softly. — Pause. 

Mrs.  M.     May,  did  you  like  this  Mr.  Vallide? 

May.  [Gets  up  from  the  piano  and  stands  by 
the  book-case  again  looking  at  Mrs.  M.]  Yes, 
mother. 

Mrs.  M.  Uncle  Edward  seems  to  think  a  great 
deal  of  him. 

May.     Every  one  thinks  a  great  deal  of  him. 

Mrs.  M.  Did  you  like  him — very  much?  [Ten- 
derly.]    Won't  you  tell  me,  darling? 

May.  [Passionately.]  How  can  I  after  what 
you  said.  [Change  of  manner.]  Oh,  but  you've 
always  been  such  a  dear  mother,  why  shouldn't  I 
tell  you — I  never  met  any  one  like  him.  I  don't 
believe  there  is  any  one  like  him  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  M.     Do  you  think  he  cares  for  you? 

May.  Yes.  [Then  doubtfully.]  I  thought 
he  did — but  he  hasn't  written — he  hasn't  done 
anything.     I  think  I  know  the  reason  of — of 

Mrs.  M.     Of  what? 

May.  Of  his  not  speaking — but  I  thought  he 
would  have  written — I've  been  miserable  this  last 
week.  But  I  know  he  cares — and  I  can't  tell 
you  what  he  is — he  isn't  like  any  one  else  I  have 
ever  met.  Ida  said  before  he  came  that  he  had 
the  new-world  vigour  and  the  old-world  charm 
— he  has — and  he's  so  straight,  so  clever — I  can't 
think  why  he  should  hold  back.  .  .  .  Why  he 
didn't  tell  me [Pause. 


THOMAS   AND   THE    PRINCESS     199 

Mrs.  M.  Suppose  you  go  for  some  flowers. 
[Evidently  this  is  a  sudden  thought.']  Wilson 
can  go  with  you  in  a  taxi — to  Solomon's 

May.  It  would  take  so  long — he  arrived  in 
England  to-day  uncle  Edward  said — if  he 
came 

Mrs.  M.  It's  too  early  yet,  you  will  be  back. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  You  have  hardly 
mentioned  his  name. 

May.  I  couldn't.  Mother,  what  a  dear  you 
are.  .  .  .  He  said  he  was  coming  to  England 
on  his  life's  quest — that  at  the  end  of  twenty- 
four  hours  he  would  know  ...  I  can't  think 
what  he  meant.  And  yet  I  feel  that  it  had  to 
do  with  me.  ...  I  think  that — that — he  isn't 
anybody — in  the  sense  that  is  so  much  to  you. 
He  is  just  a  new  man;  but  there  are  great  things 
before  him — he  is  going  to  do  them — to  do  them 
himself.  Isn't  it  much  better  than  if  they  were 
all  behind — and  the  honours  had  been  won  al- 
ready by  his  ancestors — and  he  did  nothing — 
better  than  if  he  were  living  on  the  reward  of 
deeds  done  long  ago  by  others? 

Mrs.  M.     Why,  May! 

May.  I  know  it's  going  to  be  very  difficult 
for  you,  darling — at  least  I  think  it  is — if  he 
comes.  If  he  does,  I  want  you  to  remember  that 
— that  my  happiness  is  at  stake,  that — ^that — I 
love  him — I  wouldn't  own  it  to  any  one  in  the 


200     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

wide   world    but    you — and   to   him   if   he    should 
ever  ask  me.     Oh^  mother,  dear 

Mrs.  M.  [^Tenderly  and  surprised J\  My  dar- 
ling, you  must  trust  me  .  .  .  There's  the  bell ! 
It  is  Sir  James,  I  expect  .  .  .  The  drive  will 
do  you  good.  Go  and  bring  back  some  flowers 
— and  green  boughs  to  deck  your  room — ^tell  Wil- 
son  I   said  she  was  to   go  with  you. 

[Exit  May  quickly  l. 
[Servant  announces'] 

Servant.     Sir   James   Caxton! 
Enter  Sir  James. 

Sir  J.     How  d'ye  do? 

Mrs.  M.  Julia  will  be  here  directly,  she's 
quite  ready. 

Sir  J.  Oh!  [Loohing  round.]  Nice  house 
— cheerful. 

Mrs.  M.  So  glad  you  like  it.  You've  been 
at   Fieldborough  ? 

Sir  J.  At  Fieldborough — shan't  be  there  much 
more.      You   know   that? 

Mrs.  M.  What  do  you  think  of  your  probable 
successor? 

Sir  J.  What,  Vallide?  Decent  chap.  Very 
decent  chap,  indeed. 

Mrs.  M.     You  liked  him? 

Sir  J.  Yes;  piece  of  luck  for  Fieldborough 
if  they  get  him. 

Mrs.    M.      O— o— h!      [Thoughtfully.]      And 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     201 

you   thought — But   here    is    Julia — and    I    didn't 
give  May  a  cab  fare. 

Enter  Julia. 

Julia.      [To  Sir  J.]      I  heard  you  come. 

[Ejcit  Mrs.  Murison. 
[Sir  James  and  Julia  alone. 

Sir  J.      [To  Julia.]      Well— better? 

[Holds  out  his  hand. 

Julia.     Much  better.     And  you? 

Sir  J.     Pretty  well.     Ready  to  come  home? 

Julia.     Yes,  if  you  want  me. 

Sir  J.  You  can  do  as  you  like.  It's  dull 
alone,  but  it's  dull  anyway.  I've  never  got 
much  out  of  it — I  thought  I  should — but  I 
didn't. 

Julia.     What  do  you  mean? 

Sir  J.  I  don't  know.  Look  here,  Julia,  you 
never  pretended  to  care  much  about  me — I'm 
old — and  ugly — and  dull,  I  suppose,  but  I  want 
to  know  the  truth.  Was  Endsleigh  making  love 
to  you?  Vallide  slipped  back  to  give  you  warn- 
ing, but  I  saw  you  through  the  trees.  He  was 
the  chap  you  were  breaking  your  heart  about 
when  you  were  a  girl.  No  one  told  me  his  name, 
but  I  knew. 

Julia.     Yes,  it  was  Frank  Endsleigh. 

Sir  J.  And  it's  because  of  him  that  you  have 
always  kept  me  at  arm's  length — given  me  my 
due  to  the  letter,  but  nothing  else. 


202     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Julia.  [Half  tragic.^  But  nothing  else,  Jim, 
nothing  else.  I  prided  myself  on  playing  fair, 
but  I  haven't  done  so. 

Sir   J.      lSuspiciousli/.'\      Eh?     What? 

Julia.  In  my  heart,  I  mean.  Outwardly  I 
did — absolutely.  I  was  talked  into  marrying  you; 
but  I  never  pretended  to  care.  I  know  how 
good  youVe  been  to  me,  how  many  things  you've 
given  me  ...  I  counted  my  bangles  only 
yesterday — wasn't  it  silly — with  all  the  different 
stones,  and  looked  at  the  sable  cloak  you  gave 
me  on  my  birthday  last  year.  You  always  tried 
to  win  me  with  money  and  goods  and  chattels. 

Sir  J.  Women  generally  like  them.  I  was 
too  old  to  make  love.  Besides,  I  thought  you 
cared   for  the  other  chap 

Julia.  I  did — all  the  years  that  I  have  been 
married  to  you — I  never  wrote — or  sent  a  mes- 
sage— ^but  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  at  the  back 
of  my  head,  there  he  lived,  and  I  thought  he 
cared  for  me — that  his  life  was  just  waiting — 
waiting 

Sir  J.     For  me  to  die? 

Julia.  [Quickly.']  No,  for  some  indefinite 
time  when  we  should  justify  ourselves  to  each 
other  and  then  go  our  separate  ways.  He  only 
came  back  from  India  five  months  ago — why 
didn't  you  let  me  speak  with  him? 

Sir  J.     I  knew  he  was  the  man. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     203 

Julia.  Ten  minutes  talk  would  have  cleared 
everything  away.  But  I  never  had  it  till  that 
day   at   Alassio. 

Sir  J.     What  did  he  say  for  himself? 

Julia.  [With  a  half-tragic,  half-scornful 
laugh.]  He  told  me  about  a  woman  he  had  met 
on  board  the  boat,  and  how  he  had  loved  her  all 
his  life.  Her — not  me!  The  whole  thing  has 
been  a  myth — a  mistake,  a  farce.  I've  wasted 
all  the  good  years   of  my  life  on  a  dream. 

Sir  J.     So  have  I. 

Julia.     You ! 

Sir  J.  Well,  I  never  thought  about  anything 
but  you,   or  wanted  anything  else 

Julia.  [Almost  pathetic]  Why  didn't  you 
say  so.^  You  always  grunted  and  hung  about 
and  said  nothing. 

Sir  J.     I  thought  you  knew. 

Julia.  Perhaps  I  did — but  there  are  some 
things  one  doesn't  choose  to  know — won't  know 
— ^till  they're  put  into  words;  and  gifts  are  no 
good. 

Sir  J.  I  thought  they'd  make  you  come  round 
— I've  had  a  bad  time — but  you  didn't  know 
that. 

Julia.  It  has  ended.  And — there  was  noth- 
ing— nothing  said  at  Alassio  to  make  you  un- 
happy. He  kissed  my  hand  and  explained  about 
the   other  woman.     That  was    all. 


204     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Sir  J.  Why  did  you  insist  on  coming  to  stay 
with  Evelyn? 

Julia.  Because  the  house  had  tumbled  down 
in  which  for  years  I  had  put  all  my  dreams.  I 
wanted  to  be  alone  to  think  over  its  ruin.  Every 
human  being  wants  to  be  alone  sometimes 

Sir  J.  [Bitterly.]  And  the  everlasting  to- 
getherness of  marriage  is  so  terrible. 

Julia.  \_He  is  standing  hy  her;  she  is  sitting 
down  on  the  sofa.]  Oh,  Jim,  dear — forgive  me 
— ^it  shall  be  better.     I  am  glad  we  are  together. 

[Kisses  his  hand. 

Sir  J.  Don't  do  that — I  can't  bear  it.  Per- 
haps it's  too  late;  but  we  have  a  fair  field  at  last. 

Julia.  It's  not  too  late — it  shan't  be  too  late 
— I  have  been  a  fool. 

[Putting  her  cheek  against  his  hand. 

Sir  J.     Of  course,  that's  why  I'm  one 

Julia.     Why  are  you  one.'' 

Sir  J.  [Tenderly.]  There  is  nothing  like  a 
woman  who  is  a  fool  for  getting  at  you — and 
making  you  another. 

Julia.     Oh,  Jim! 

Sir  J.  But  it  hasn't  been  much  of  a  show 
for  either  of  us. 

Julia.  [Gets  up.]  Let  us  go  home — this  very 
minute.  Where's  Evelyn?  [Goes  to  door  on  r.] 
Evelyn.  [Calling.]  We  are  going.  [To  Sir  J.] 
Is  the  carriage  here? 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     205 

Sir  J.  Yes — and  there's  a  new  rug  in  it — 
black  bearskin. 

Julia.  Oh,  you!  [Laughing,  and  going  to- 
wards the  door — turns  hack  and  kisses  him.]  I 
must   go   and   get  ready. 

Enter  Mrs.  Murison. 

Julia.  Couldn't  you  show  him  the  drawing- 
room,  Evelyn?  [To  him.]  It's  such  a  nice  house, 
and  a  garden.  .  .  .  Did  you  see  the  labur- 
nums and  the  lilacs?  [Goes  to  the  windows  at 
back  of  stage,  pushes  open  the  casement  a  little 
way,  then  draws  hack,  and  says]  Mr.  Vallide 
is  just  coming  in  at  the  gate — he  didn't  see 
me. 

Mrs.    M.     [Quickly.     Rings.]     Wait 

Enter  Servant. 

Mrs.  M.  [To  Servant.]  Show  the  gentle- 
man who  is  at  the  front  door  into  the  drawing- 
room.  [Turns  and  looks  at  Sir  James  and  Julia, 
ohviously  agitated,  hut  trying  to  conceal  it.]  I 
didn't  think  he  would  come  so  early. 

Julia.      You  knew   he   was   coming? 

Mrs.  M.     Yes — I  knew. 

Sir  J.     Is  that  why  you  asked  me  about  him? 

Mrs.  M.  He  sent  me  a  note  just  now — ask- 
ing me  to  see  him  alone. 

Julia.     I  believe  he  has  come  to 

Mrs.  M.  [With  a  thrill  of  dismay.]  You 
mean? 


206     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Julia.      Yes — ^yes — for    May. 

Mrs.  M.  [Ruefully,  and  evidently  Tcnowing 
what  is  before  her.]  I  don't  want  to  give  her 
up — it  was  different  with  Geoff;  that  was  a  thing 
that  had  grown — besides  he  was  one  of  us.  I 
want   to   keep   her   a   little   longer. 

Julia.      But  if  they  love   each   other? 

Sir  J.  [With  conviction.']  I  believe  he's  a 
good  chap. 

Mrs.  M.  But  I  don't  want  it  to  be  Mr.  Vallide 
— and  yet  if  she  cares 

Julia.  Let  him  have  her — her  young  lover — 
her  first  lover — ^nothing  else  will  ever  be  the 
same.  Oh^  Jim,  forgive  me.  [Quickly.]  I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  you;  but  youth  only  comes  once 

Mrs.  M.  [To  Sir  J.]  You  like  him,  you  like 
him? 

Sir  J.  Have  said  so  already,  excellent  chap, 
— fond  of  May — certain  of  it — a  millionaire,  or 
uncle    a    millionaire — same    thing. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  I  hate  money — I  mean  when 
the  wrong  people  have  it. 

Sir  J.  He's  the  right  person — ^he'll  know  what 
to  do  with  it — was  at  Balliol — Fellow  of  his  Col- 
lege— probably  a  prig  when  he  left  it — what  more 
do  you  want? 

Mrs.  M.  It's  a  great  deal,  but — I  must  go  to 
him. 

Julia.     See  him  here,  Evelyn — in  May's  room. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     207 

Mrs.  M.  [Helplessly.]  She  is  all  the  world 
to  me. 

Julia.  [Who  has  gone  towards  the  door  with 
Sir  J.]  I  know.  .  .  .  [Gratefully.]  Thank 
you  for  everything  you  have  been  to  me.  We'll 
go. 

Sir  J.  [Hesitating.]  Vallide  is  a  good  chap 
— he'll  do  more  than  any  of  m*. 

[Exeunt  Sir  James  and  Julia. 
[Mrs.  Murison  alone,  makes  business  for 
a  minute — rings. 

Enter  Servant. 
Mrs.    M.      Ask   Mr.   Vallide   if   he   will   come 
here. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Pause.     Re-enter  Servant. 
Servant.      Mr.    Vallide. 

Enter  Robert. 
Mrs.   M.     How  do  you  do? 
[ShaJces  hands — her  manner  is  quite  courteous, 
but  cold. 

Robert.     You  don't  know  me,  but 

Mrs.  M.  But  I  have  heard  of  you.  You  were 
in  Alassio  the  other  day — Lord  Barnstaple  and 
Lady  Sarah  were  here  just  now. 

Robert.      Oh 

Mrs.  M.  Won't  you  sit  down?  I  think  you 
left  before  they  did? 

Robert.     I  was  hurrying  back  to  London 


208     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

Mrs.  M.     But  you  have  been  in  Rome  since? 

Robert.  I  had  to  go  there  suddenly,  but  I 
wanted  to  come  back  to  England — it's  so  difficult 
to  explain  though  I  have  come  to  do  that. 

Mrs.  M.  I  don't  understand.  [Then  quickly, 
as  if  anxious  to  avoid  explanation.']  You  have 
known  Lord  Barnstaple  a  long  time,  I  think? 

Robert.      A   long   time.      In   Canada   first 

Mrs.  M.  And  afterwards  you  were  his  pri- 
vate secretary,   he  told  me  to-day. 

Robert.     For  two  or  three  months  only 

Mrs.  M.  [Hurriedly.']  It  was  unlucky  the 
Government  went  out  so  soon.  And  now  you 
are  going  to  put  up  for  Fieldborough  ?  Sir  James 
Caxton  has  been  its  member  for  eighteen  years. 
He  was  here,  too,  just  now;  he  thinks  you  are 
sure  to  succeed  him. 

Robert.  Perhaps — I  don't  know.  It  depends 
— on — ^the  matter  that  has  brought  me  here. 

Mrs.  M.  [Beginning  to  face  it.]  On  the  mat- 
ter that  has  brought  you  here? 

Robert.  At  Alassio  I  met  so  many  of  your 
relations 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  yes.  Lady  Sarah  Stratton,  she 
is  my  Aunt — ^the  Caxtons — and  my  daughter,  of 
course. 

Robert.  And  your  daughter — is  she  back? 
She  was  going  to  Paris. 

Mrs.    M.      Lady   Caxton   brought   her   home — 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     209 

sooner  than  was  intended — the  day  after  you 
left,  I  think 

Robert.      And   she   is   here? 

Mrs.  M.     She  is  here;  but  she  is  out  just  now. 

\_Hesitating.]      She    didn't   know    that    you    were 

coming.      ...      I   thought   I   should  prefer  to 

see  you   alone — you  said  you  wanted  to   see   me. 

[Evidently  feeling  bound  to  come  to  a  point. 

Robert.  Yes,  it  is  you  that  I  have  come  to 
see.  It  was  to  see  you*  that  I  was  hurrying  to 
England,  but  the  night  before  I  was  to  start 
a  telegram  came,  saying  that  my  uncle  was  down 
with   fever 

Mrs.  M.     And  naturally  you  went  to  him. 

Robert.  As  soon  as  he  was  better  we  went 
to  Genoa.  His  ship  sailed  from  there  for  Can- 
ada. I  watched  it  out  of  sight  two  days  ago, 
then  took  the  next  train  for  England.  Does  all 
this  say^  anything  to  you — But  it's  impossibly 
that  you  should  remember  me. 

Mrs.  M.  Remember  you?  Have  we  met  be- 
fore? 

Robert.  Yes — we  have  met  before — ^that  is 
why  I  have  come — why  I  held  back  at  Alassio 

Mrs.  M.     I  don't  understand. 

Robert.     Do  you  remember  Thomas 

Mrs.  M.     Thomas? 

Robert.     Thomas  Lobb? 

Mrs.  M.     [Looking  at  him.]     Oh,  yes,  of  course 


210     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

— the  little  boy  who  went  to  Canada.  Do  you 
know  anything  about  him  or — do  you  know  him? 
I  should  like  to  hear  of  him  again. 

Robert.     I  am  Thomas. 

Mrs.   M.     You!     Oh  no 

Robert.     It  is  so — I  am  Thomas. 

Mrs.  M.  It's  too  extraordinary!  .  .  .  You 
went   to   Canada — your   uncle  sent  for   you. 

Robert.     But  I  came  back  after  two  years. 

Mrs.    M,     We  were   abroad 

Robert.  I  know.  I  used  to  walk  by  the  empty 
house^  and  look  up  at  the  window,  closed  and 
dusty,  through  which  I  had  heard  May's  voice 
for  the  last  time — [Mrs.  M.  gives  a  little  back- 
ward  movement  as  he  says  May's  Christian  name, 
and  he  corrects  himself  cynically.'] — your  daugh- 
ter's voice.  ...  I  didn't  know  where  you  had 
gone.  I  rang  the  bell  and  asked  the  caretaker 
once;  but  she  could  only  tell  me  that  you  were 
in  Switzerland. 

Mrs.  M.  [A  shade  patronising,  and  just  a 
little  haughtily.]  1  wish  you  had  written,  I 
should  have  been  so — interested. 

Robert.  I  didn't  want  you  to  know  anything 
about  me.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  but  without  your 
seeing  me. 

Mrs.  M.  Why  shouldn't  you  want  us  to  see 
you? 

Robert.     Because  I  had  learnt  even  then  that 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     211 

I  couldn't  meet  you  on  the  old  footing,  and  1 
knew  that  you  would  not  receive  me  on  any 
other — there  were  stretches  and  gulfs  between 
us. 

Mrs.  M.     You  shouldn't  say  that. 

Robert.  \^Not  noticing.]  All  these  years  I 
have  been  trying  to  make  a  bridge  across  them 
— not  with  any  definite  end  in  view,  but  only 
that  I  might  take  some  place  in  the  world  that 
was  nearer  yours.     I  knew  all  the  prejudices 

Mrs.  M.     I  was  born  with  them 

Robert.  Oh  yes,  I  know — forgive  me.  [Sud- 
denly.] I  have  often  thought  of  the  day  we  saw 
you  first — you  came  into  the  room  where  my 
father  sat  over  he  fire  warming  his  hands;  you 
had  some  flowers,  you  brought  him  some  more 
tne  night  he  died,  and  put  them  at  his  feet — 
I  remember  just  what  you  looked  like — tender 
and  sweet,  but  very  proud;  and  even  that  re- 
membrance has  made  me  feel  as  if  there  were 
mountains  not  to  be  crossed. 

Mrs.  M.  [Again  evidently  frightened  at  what 
she  has  to  face.]     Why  should  they  be  crossed.'* 

Robert.  I  didn't  know  till  I  saw  May  com- 
ing in  from  the  orange  garden  at  Alassio — and 
loved  her — but  I've  loved  her  all  my  life,  thought 
of  her,  dreamt  of  her,  lived  for  her.  In  my 
thoughts  everything  has  been  laid  before  her, 
that  is  why  I  have  come. 


212     THOMAS    AND    THE    PHINCESS 

Mrs.  M.  [Drawing  back  a  little,]  I  can't 
discuss  it — or  listen  to  any  more  on  this  sub- 
ject.    Tell  me  about  your  mother — ^where  is  she? 

Robert.  She  died  five  years  ago.  My  uncle 
sent  for  her  to  Canada.  She  lived  a  life  of 
ease  and  tried  not  to  find  it  dull,  [cynically']  and 
wore  dresses  to  which  she  had  never  been  accus- 
tomed and  tried  not  to  feel  awkward  in  them. 
But  she  was  happy  enough,  thank  God. 

Mrs.  M.     It's  all  so  unbelievable.     And  Polly? 

Robert.  Polly  calls  herself  Mary  now — and 
is  married  to  a  sturdy  Canadian  who  owns  more 
territory  than  he  can  walk  over  in  a  week. 

Mrs.  M.  And  you — you  went  away  Thomas 
Lobb.     Why  have  you  come  back  Robert  Vallide? 

Robert.  My  second  name  was  Robert  and  I 
liked  being  called  by  it — it  was  my  father's — • 
and  my  uncle  is  proud  of  his  Cornish  name.  The 
Robert  Vallides  have  never  been  of  any  conse- 
quence— fishermen  or  miners,  or  engineers — men 
who  were  near  the  earth  or  the  sea  and  battled 
with  it,  but  they  can  be  counted  a  long  way  back 
— he  didn't  want  the  name  to  die  out. 

Mrs.  M.  And  you — ^what  happened  to  you 
when  you  first  went  out? 

Robert.  I  was  sent  to  a  school-marm  for  a 
couple  of  years,  then  back  to  England  with  a 
tutor.  When  I  was  licked  into  shape,  and  had 
travelled  a  little,  I  went  to  Oxford. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     213 

Mrs.  M.  And  are  you  a  fellow  of  your  Col- 
lege? 

Robert.     You  knew? 

Mrs.   M.     Lady   Caxton  told  me. 

Robert.     Ah ! 

Mrs.  M.     And  then? 

Robert.  Then  I  started  out  in  the  world — 
on  my  own;  various  things  came  my  way  that 
lead  towards  politics.  Lord  Barnstaple  has  pro- 
posed that  I  should  offer  myself  as  a  candidate 
for  Fieldborough. 

Mrs.  M.  It's  so  bewildering — I  can't  believe 
that  you  are  Thomas. 

Robert.  But  it's  true^  it's  true.  I  used  to 
carry  out  newspapers  in  the  morning,  and  bring 
up  coals  into  your  drawing-room,  and  try  not  to 
let  you  see  that  I  found  them  heavy — I  want  you 
to  realise  all  that  I  was  and  used  to  do — you 
gave  my  mother   a   mangle. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh!  [Drawing  back  again.']  How 
clever  you  have  been,  how  good!  You  will  think 
me — so  narrow,  so  vulgar 

Robert.  No,  I  understand.  .  .  .  The  last 
day  I  was  in  England  while  I  stood  by  the  door 
waiting  with  a  telegram,  I  heard  you  say  that 
when  May  grew  up  you  would  rather  she  married 
a  beggar  in  her  own  class  than  a  new-made  mil- 
lionaire. .  .  .  I'm  not  a  millionaire — yet  at 
any    rate — that    at   least   is    an    extenuating    cir- 


214     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

curostance — I  know  all  that  you  feel  about — 
about — I  don't  want  to  say  upstarts.  [With  a 
weary  smile.] 

Mrs.  M.  I  can't  help  it,  I  never  have  been  able 
to  stand  the  new  people  who  come  rushing  through 
the  world  seizing  the  things  of  which  they've  no 
knowledge  and  for  which  they've  no  reverence 
— I  don't  mean  this  for  you,  of  course — you'll 
think  me  full  of  snobbish  prejudices 

Robert.  I  like  them.  It's  the  knowledge  that 
for  generations  back,  one  behind  the  other,  your 
people  helped  to  safeguard  the  country  and  did 
great  deeds  for  the  world.  But  I  am  just  as 
proud  of  my  sturdy  ancestors — my  fisher-fathers 
and  thrifty  mothers — as  you  are  of  knowing  that 
some  of  yours  were  Crusaders.  Mine  worked 
for  their  country,  too,  and  gave  me  the  instinct 
to  work — in  a  different  manner  from  theirs,  but 
with  as  much  determination — and  I  will,  if  this 
day  goes  well  with  me. 

Mrs.  M.  Your  mother  must  have  looked  so 
different.      [Evidently   trying  to  make   time.] 

Robert.  She  used  to  think  herself  a  great 
lady,  and  was  counted  one  in  the  colonies.  She 
would  never  let  me  remember  the  old  days,  Mary 
quarrels  with  me  if  I  even  mention  them,  and 
wouldn't  come  to  England  for  the  world,  lest 
any  one  she  knew  once — ^there  isn't  a  soul  to  do 
it — should  remember  her. 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     215 

Mrs.  M.  [Looking  at  him,  dazed.]  I  can't 
believe  it,  even  now.  [Pause. 

Robert.  [A  little  desperately.]  Do  you  re- 
member the  day  I  wished  you  good-bye — a  little 
lad  going  off  alone  to  the  other  side  of  the  world 
— without  a  penny  save  the  present  you  had  given 
me.  You  kissed  me,  just  as  if  I  had  been  your 
own  son — this  last  three  weeks  I  have  dreamed 
that  perhaps  I  should  be.  If  she  cares  for  me, 
won't  you  let  it  come  true?  I  love  her — 
I  love  her — and  I  think  she  loves  me  back 
again. 

Mrs.  M.     I  can't 


Robert.  Is  it  such  a  crime  to  have  been  poor 
— to   have  worked 

Mrs.  M.  No,  no,  it's  wonderful.  Oh,  what 
can  I  say?  I  want  to  be  different — if  it  had 
only  been 

Robert.  [With  an  odd  smile.]  If  it  had  only 
been  some  one  else's  shoes  I  blacked. 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  somehow  it  would  seem  quite 
different. 

Robert.  Or  any  one  else's  daughter  that  I 
wanted  to  marry 

Mrs.  M.  I  know — I  know.  I  should  laugh 
at  the  objections — it's  only  experience  that 
teaches.  You  didn't  speak  to  her  or  tell  her  this? 
She  doesn't  know 

Robert.     That  I  love  her — she  must  know  it. 


216     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

though  I  didn't  put  it  into  actual  words,  I 
wouldn't  till  I'd  seen  you. 

Mrs.  M.  That  was  like  you.  {^Looking  up  at 
him.]  Some  men  would  have  taken  advantage 
— would  have  tried  to  win  her  without  any  scru- 
ple. 

Robert.  A  man  has  a  right  to  try  and  win 
the  woman  he  loves  if  they  are  both  free  and 
he  knows  he  can  make  the  way  smooth  for  her, 
but  this  is  different — I  couldn't  win  her  against 
your  will,  I  remember  all  you  were,  all  you  did, 
too  well;  and  if  you  say  it  mustn't  be  I  will  go 
away  and  never  see  her  again.  I  will  make  it 
my  burnt  sacrifice  to  your  goodness  in  past  years. 
But  I  am  a  man,  strong  and  well — and  ready  to 
work.  I  love  her — and  will  win  all  things  for 
her — I  think  I  could  reach  down  the  stars  if 
she  would  take  them  from  me. 

Mrs.  M.  [Evidently  struggling.]  I  can  feel 
how  much  you  care  for  her.  It  wrings  my  heart 
— I  feel  as  if  I'd  no  right^ — ^but  I  can't 

Robert.  [Following  up  his  opportunity.]  Why 
not?  Let  me  speeik  to  her — give  me  my  great 
chance  of  happiness — I  will  make  a  career  worthy 
of  her. 

Mrs.  M.  [Hesitates.]  What  can  I  say?  Oh, 
what  can  I  do? 

Robert.  Does  it  matter  so  much  that  once  we 
were  starving  and  that 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     217 

Mrs.  M.  No — no.  Kings  have  starved  before 
now. 

Robert.  And  beggars  have  been  kings.  And 
a  king  might  black  the  shoes  of  a  whole  nation, 
but  he  would  still  be  a  king — why  should  it  make 
so  much  difference  to  the  beggar 

Mrs.  M.     You  must  think  me  hateful 

Robert.      No 

Mrs.  M.  You  must — I  feel  myself  so  and 
yet 

Robert.  I  think  you  proud  and  dear  and 
sweet — as  I  have  always  thought  you 

Mrs.  M.  [Turning  suddenly.]  I  will  be — 
I  will  be. 

Robert.  You  will  give  me  my  great  chance — 
you  will  trust  me.'* 

Mrs.  M.     Yes — I  will  do  it. 

Robert.     I  may  see  her — speak  to  her 

Mrs.  M.  [Hardly  able  to  speak.]  Yes — you 
shall  speak  to  her.      She  shall  decide. 

Robert.  I  shall  never  be  good  enough  for  her 
— never.  And  perhaps  it  is  all  a  mistake  and 
she  doesn't  care.  Yet  I  have  dared  to  hope — 
do  you  think — do  you  know — if  there  is  hope 
for  me? 

Mrs.  M.     She  must  tell  you  that  herself. 

[She    is    still    reluctant    and    wonder- 
struck. 

Robert.     Whichever   way  it   goes,   she  is  the 


218     THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS 

meaning  of  life  to  me.     [Crosses  to  her.]     Wish 
me  luck  when  I  ask  her  if  she  loves  me. 

Mrs.     M.        [Quickly.']        I     heard     the     gate 
click     .     .     . 

[She  goes  to  the  window,  opens  it,  stands 
looking  out  for  a  moment,  as  in  First 
Act. 
May.      [Voice  heard.]      Mother,  dear — mother, 
dear!     [Just  as  in  First  Act.] 

Mrs.  M.      [To  May.]     I  want  you,  dear,  some 
one  is   here — has   come   back. 

[Robert  stands  with  his  face  towards 
the  window. 
Mrs.  M.  [To  Robert.]  She  is  coming. 
[Comes  from  window,  goes  towards  door,  turns 
and  puts  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  with  real 
feeling.]  If  she  will — I  give  her  to  you — It  is 
in  her  hands.  [Robert  lifts  her  hands  and 
kisses  them.]     My  son,  Thomas,  I  wish  you  luck. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Murison. 
[Robert    alone    for    a    minute,    watching    the 
door,   then 

Enter  May. 
[She   stops;   he   goes   forward;   hut   seems 
for  a  moment  unable   to  speak. 
May.     I  knew  it  was  you — Uncle  Edward  told 
me  that  you  had  arrived. 

Robert.     And  you  know — you  must  know  why 
I'm  here [Pause.] 


THOMAS    AND    THE    PRINCESS     219 
May.      You   said  there  was   some   obstacle 


Robert.  It  is  swept  away — the  world  is  ours 
if  you  will  ...  I  couldn't  speak  to  you  at 
Alassio,  there  was  something  I  had  to  come  to 
England — to    come   here    and    explain 

May.  [^Evidently  understands  now  what  the 
obstacle  was.^      Ah,  I  see 

Robert.  [Not  heeding.^  Something  that  you 
don't  know,  dear.  I  love  you — you  must  know 
that  I  love  you — all  my  heart  and  life  are  yours, 
but  there  was  something  else  that  had  to  be  done 
— to  be  told  before  I  could  dare  to  ask  if  you 
cared  for  me — I  must  tell  you  what  it  is  before 
you   answer — wait 

May.     But  I  know  already. 

Robert.      You  know? 

May.  Yes — that  you  are  Thomas — you  be- 
trayed it  that  last  day  of  all. 

Robert.     Betrayed  it.'' 

May.  Yes,  yes — by  the  catch  of  the  mouse- 
cage — when   I  thought   it  over,   I   knew 

Robert.     And  it  makes  no  difference? 

May.  Difference?  It  makes  a  world  of  dif- 
ference— I   shall  be   so  proud   of  you. 

Robert.     My  darling!     [Tahes  her  hands  and 
raises   his   head   with  a  little,   happy,  triumphant 
laugh.'\      I've   come  back.   Miss    May — I've   come 
back — the   Princess's   lover   has    come   back! 
Curtain. 


*THE  MODERN  WAY 

A     COMEDY     IN     THREE     ACTS 


*Adapted  from  a  story  that  appeared  in  an  American 
magazine  four  years  ago. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONiE 

Lord  Gaysford    {Freddie;  in  the  Guards) 

DuKB  OP  Lexham 

Algernon    Wake    (nephem   to   Duke,   cousin   to 

Margaret) 
Gerald   Massington 

Cyril   Tremayne  ' 

Sir  George   Silcot 
Benson,    an    ex-hutler 
RucKER,  Lady  Gaysford's  butler 
Lady  Gaysford    {mother  to  Freddie) 
Hon.    Mrs.   Massington    {sister  to  Freddie) 
Lady  Silcot 
Mrs.  Merlin 
Mrs.  Calson 
Jennie   {her  daughter) 
Sybil  Dolwyn 
Margaret   Wake    {niece    to   Duke) 

Guests,  Waiters,  etc. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE:     Drawing-room   in   Grosvenor  Place. 

TIME:     Afternoon. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE:     Conservatory    at    Warringford   House. 

TIME:    Same  evening. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE:    Margaret's  sitting-room  in  Pont  Street. 

TIME:    Next  afternoon. 

The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  in  truenty-four 
hours. 


ACT    I 

Scene. — Drawing-room  in  Grosvenor  Place.  Fire 
place  on  r,,  no  fire.  Chairs,  couch,  table, 
<^c.  Exit  on  L.  Wide  open  windows  at 
bdck  of  stage,  showing  balcony  with  red 
baize  over  the  balustrade,  cloth  represent- 
ing tops  of  trees  in  Buckingham  Palace 
Garden  over  the  way. 

Servant  on  balcony  arranging  chairs,  and  mak- 
ing business  about   the  room. 

Lady  Gaysford  also  moves  about  the  room  ar- 
ranging various  details. 

She  is  middle-aged  and  distinguished-looking.  A 
little  cold  in  manner,  but  kind,  and  devoted 
to  her  son. 

Lady  G.  You  needn't  put  many  chairs  on  the 
balcony,  Rucker;  I  expect  very  few  people.  Put 
an   easy-chair — one   or  two. 

Rucker.     Yes,  my  lady. 

Lady  G.  And  bring  in  tea  the  moment  the 
King  and  Queen  have  passed. 

Rucker.     Yes,  my  lady. 
Enter  Gerald  and  the  Hon.   Mrs.   Massington. 
225 


226  THE   MODERN   WAY 

She  is  27  and  fashionable-looking.  Her 
husband  is  a  rather  tiresome  little  man  about 
35j  precise  in  manner.  \^Ea;it  Rucker. 

Mrs.  M.  Well,  mother.  [Kisses  her.]  We 
have  come. 

Lady  G.  My  dear  Rhoda!  I'm  so  glad  you 
managed  to  get  here. 

Rhoda.  We  were  very  late  last  night,  and  I 
have  had  neuralgia  all  the  morning,  but  I 
insisted  on  coming.  The  streets  are  decorated, 
and 

Gerald.     An  awful  crowd 

Rhoda.  It  was  impossible  to  drive.  We 
pushed  our  way  through,  and  Gerald  grumbled 
horribly — but  he  always  does,  so  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter. 

Gerald.  [Rather  disagreeably.]  I  think  I've 
enough  to  grumble  about. 

Rhoda.     How  many  have  you  asked? 

Lady  G.  Not  more  than  half  a  dozen.  I 
really   didn't  think   of  it  till  this   morning. 

Rhoda.  Oh !  And  that  nice  red  cloth !  [Look- 
ing towards  window.]  You  might  have  done 
something  for  so  many  people  you  don't  want 
at  any  other  time 

Gerald.  Who  are  not  lively  enough  for  din- 
ners, eh? 

Lady  G.  I  have  asked  Sir  George  and  Lady 
Silcot,  and  one  or  two  others,  and  I  sent  a  note 


THE   MODERN   WAY  227 

round  to  Mrs.  Merlin  an  hour  ago;  but  perhaps 
she  had  gone  out,  or  is  afraid  to  face  the  crowd. 

Gerald.  Merlin?  What  a  silly  name.  Who 
is   she.^ 

Lady  G.     You  took  her  in  the  other  night. 

Gerald.  Oh,  the  purring  woman,  Freddie's 
platonic  friend. 

Lady  G.     She's  very  sweet. 

Gerald.     Humph!     Where  does  she  live? 

Lady  G.     At  Albert  Gate.     She  has  a  flat. 

Gerald.     She  would. 

Rhoda.  Gerald  is  horrid  to-day.  I  think  she 
is  charming.  People  say  she  has  an  oifer  every 
day  in  the  week  and  two  on  Sundays. 

Gerald.     What,   of  flats? 

Rhoda.     Why,  no — of  marriage. 

Gerald.     I  wouldn't  marry  her. 

Rhoda.  Of  course  not — you  couldn't;  it  would 
be  bigamy.  [To  Lady  Gaysford.]  I  don't  think 
she'd  mind  the  Duke. 

Lady  G.  He'll  never  marry  again.  He  was 
much  too  devoted  to  his  wife.  I've  asked  him 
this  afternoon,  and  his  nephew,  Mr.  Algernon 
Wake. 

Rhoda.  I  thought  relations  were  rather 
strained  between  the   Duke  and  Algy. 

Lady  G.  I  never  take  any  notice  of  that  sort 
of  thing.  One  can't  in  London.  Dear  Mr.  Wake 
is   rather  tiresome   sometimes 


228  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Gerald.     A  jackass. 

Rhoda.     No_,  not  exactly  a  jackass. 

Lady  G.  But  I  rather  like  him.  I  asked  them 
both  on  purpose,  and  shall  pretend  not  to  know 
there  is  any  awkwardness. 

Rhoda.  You  see,  Algy  thinks  he  ought  to 
have  an  allowance  if  the  Duke  is  never  going  to 
marry  again — there's  only  one  other  life  be- 
tween. 

» 

Lady  G.  Yes,  Mr.  Wake  must  succeed  some 
day,  of  course. 

Rhoda.  Meanwhile,  the  Duke  thinks  Algy 
ought  to  marry  money — or  work.  People  have 
such  a  mania  about  work  nowadays.  Of  course 
he  invited  that  pretty  American  girl  and  her 
mother  to  Lexham  Castle  on  Algy's  account. 

Lady  G.  What,  Miss  Calson?  I  thought  Mr. 
Wake  was  in  love  with  Margaret — but  every  one 
is.  Besides,  he  and  Margaret  are  first  cousins — 
it   wouldn't   even   make    a   change    of   name. 

Gerald.  In  China  it  isn't  lawful  to  marry 
any  one  of  the  same  name. 

Rhoda.  Mother,  do  tell  me  about  Freddie  and 
Margaret.  I  saw  them  in  the  park  yesterday  sit- 
ting on  two  chairs  under  a  conspicuous  tree,  talk- 
ing for  at  least  half  an  hour.  They  looked  just 
as  if  they  were   engaged. 

Gerald.  Or  each  of  them  married  to  some- 
body else? 


THE   MODERN   WAY  229 

Lady  G.  It's  only  friendship — I  am  sorry  to 
say. 

Gerald.  \_To  Rhoda.]  More  platonics. 
Your  mother  doesn't  approve  of  them — this  is  a 
degenerate  age. 

Rhoda.  Platonics  are  all  very  well  for  mid- 
dle-aged  frumps. 

Lady  G.     Of  course. 

Gerald.  It's  a  very  ancient  form  of  friend- 
ship. 

Rhoda.  That's  what  I  say,  it's  all  very  well 
for  old  people. 

Gerald.  Humph!  [Saunters  towards  the 
window. 

Rhoda.  [Turns  anxiously  to  Lady  Gaysford.] 
I  thought  you  said  Freddie  was  coming  in,  hasn't 
he  a  week's  leave  or  something.'' 

Lady  G.  Yes,  he'll  be  here  directly.  He  gets 
off  when  they  have  passed  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Rhoda.      You   think   he's   sure   to   come? 

Lady  G.  Certain,  for  he  made  me  invite  the 
Dolwyns. 

Gerald.  [Looking  round.]  What?  The 
dolphin  ? 

Lady  G.     The  dolphin? 

Rhoda.     They  call  Sybil  the  Dolphin. 

Lady  G.  Oh,  I  thought  they  called  her  the 
corkscrew.     The  Dolwyns  made  their  money  out 


2S0  THE    MODERN   WAY 

of  it,  you  know.     Freddie  is  infatuated  with  her 
— simply  infatuated. 

Rhoda.     And  yet  there's   Margaret. 

Lady  G.      I  know    [impatiently']    and  it  would 

be  so  much  better,  but  it's  only  friendship.     He 

spends  his  whole  time  running  after  Miss  Dolwyn. 

Rhoda.     She's  very  handsome — and  rolling  in 

money. 

Enter    Servant,    announcing. 
Servant.     Miss  Margaret  Wake,  the  Duke  of 
Lexham. 

Enter  Margaret,  young,  pretty,  sympa- 
thetic, rather  grave,  and  the  Duke^ 
57,  cynical  hut  agreeable  and  distin- 
guished-looking. 

l^Exit  Servant. 
Lady  G.      [To  the  Duke.]      How  do  you  do. 
My   dear    Margaret.      [Kisses    and   evi- 
dently likes  her.] 

Margaret.  Uncle  Edward  brought  me — it  was 
so  amusing  to  see  the  crowd. 

Duke.  How  d'ye  do,  very  good  of  you  to 
ask  us.  We  got  through  very  well.  Ah,  Mass- 
ington,  how  do  you  do.^*  [Shakes  hands  with 
Gerald  and  Rhoda.]     What  time  do  they  go  by? 

Lady  G.     Very  soon  now 

Duke.  You  were  kind  enough  to  say  I  might 
bring  on  any  one  who  was  lunching  with  me  so 
I  ventured  to  tell  two  charming  American  ladies, 


THE    MODERN   WAY  281 

Mrs.  and  Miss  Calson,  that  I  thought  you  would 
give  them  room. 

Lady  G.  My  dear  Duke,  I'm  delighted — any 
friends   of   yours. 

Duke.  Perhaps  you  know  them  by  sight. 
Miss  Calson  is  a  beautiful  girl  and  her  mother's 
a  very  sensible  woman,  they  will  be  charmed  to 
make  your  acquaintance. 

Lady  G.     Nice  of  them 

Margaret.  [Looking  round.]  Where  is  Fred- 
die?    He  told  me  to  be  sure  to  come  early 

Lady  G.  [Who  evidently  likes  Margaret.] 
I  always  like  you  to  come  early. 

Margaret.  He  said  he  had  something  very 
particular  to   say   to  me. 

Lady  G.  [Eagerly.]  Did  he?  [Her  face 
lighting  up]   and  something  to  say  to  you,  dear? 

Margaret.  I  think  it's  about  [lowering  her 
voice]  Sybil  Dolwyn,  you  know — he  said  he  had 
told  you. 

Lady  G.      [Disappointed.]      Oh! 

Rhoda.  [To  Margaret.]  I  hope  he  will 
come — I  want  to  talk  to  him  [confidentially] — I 
must.  [She  and  Margaret  get  together  at  l.  of 
stage  and  sit  dorvn.]  You  weren't  at  the  Daw- 
sons'    last    night.       I     was,     unluckily,     and 

Servant.     [Announcing.]     Mr.  Algernon  Wake 
— Sir  George  and   Lady  Silcot. 
Enter  Algernon   Wake,    rather   fair,   25,   weak 


2S2  THE    MODERN   WAY 

looking     .     .     .     and  the  Silcots,  usual  so- 
ciety types. 

Lady  G.  [To  Lady  Silcot.]  I'm  so  glad  you 
were  able  to  come.     Is  Sir  George  quite  well? 

Sir  George.     Never  better.     [Shaking  hands.} 

Wake.  How  d'ye  do,  Lady  Gaysford.^  [To 
the  Duke.]  I  saw  Margaret  towing  you  along, 
Uncle   Edward. 

Duke.  [Distantly.]  How  do  you  do,  sir? 
[To  Lady  Silcot.]  Glad  to  see  you — I  heard 
Silcot's  speech  the  other  night. 

Sir  G.     It  was  too  short,  I'm  afraid. 

Duke.     Not  at  all 

Wake.  How  do  again,  Margaret?  Hullo, 
Massington — you  were  rather  late  getting  into 
the   Carlton   last  night. 

Rhoda.  [Looking  up.]  What  did  you  go  to 
the  Carlton  for,  Gerald? 

Gerald.  Supper,  of  course — what  does  one 
go  for? 

Wake.  [Looking  rather  silly.]  I  never  un- 
derstood  two   men   going   to   the    Carlton   myself 

- — however  it  may  be  your  idea 

Rhoda.  Oh!  [Laughing.]  That's  so  like 
Gerald. 

Wake.  [Aside  to  Massington.]  I  didn't  say 
that  it  was 

Gerald.  [Falling  in  nnth  the  joke.]  I  was 
with  an  old  friend. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  2S8 

Wake.  Ah!  looked  old.  I  went  on  to  Mrs. 
Dawson's  bridge-party.  Mrs.  Massington  was 
losing  fivers  without  turning  a  hair 

Rhoda.  Don't  tell  tales  of  us  all — [tvith  a 
nervous  laugh.] 

Gerald.  [To  Rhoda.]  You  told  me  you  only 
lost  twenty-five  shillings. 

Wake.  — And  winning  *em  all  back  like  any- 
thing. 

[Winks  at  Rhoda.] 

Gerald.     More  than  she  did  last  time. 

Lady  G.      Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go 
to  the  balcony^   there   are   always   things   to   see. 
Enter   Servant,    announcing. 

Servant.     Mrs.  and  Miss  Calson. 
They    enter,    fashionably    dressed.      Mrs.    Calson 
is   middle-aged,   very   talkative.     Jennie,   26, 
is  pretty  and  charming.     They  are  both  much 
interested  in  everything  that  is  English. 

Mrs.   C.     Lady  Gaysford.^ 

Lady  G.     Yes — I'm  very  glad  to  see  you. 

Mrs.  C.  [American  accent.]  Our  friend,  the 
Duke  of  Lexham,  said  you  would  be  so  kind  as 
to  let  us  see  your  King  and  Queen  go  by — and 
as  we've  been  wishing  so  much  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, we  took  courage  and  seized  this  op- 
portunity  

Lady  G.     So  kind  of  you. 

Mrs.  C.     Well,  the  kindness  is  the  other  way. 


234  THE    MODERN   WAY 

This  is  my  daughter  Jennie.  She  and  I  are  in 
England  for  the  first  time,  and — why,  Duke, 
there  you  are  again.  [Turning  to  Lady  Gays- 
ford.]  You  English  people  are  very  good  to  us 
Americans;  we've  had  a  lovely  time. 

Jennie.     Just  splendid  I  call  it. 

Mrs.  C.  We  were  longing  to  have  a  good 
look  at  them  to-day,  but  it  didn't  occur  to  us 
to  take  places  till  it  was  too  late.  And  one  of 
the  things  we  have  come  over  for,  of  course,  is 
to  see  them.  Your  King  is  really  a  King,  you 
know,  and  as  for  the  Queen,  why  she's  just 
lovely. 

Duke.     Ah — we  all  think  that. 

Mrs.  C.  We  were  presented  last  week,  but 
we  were  so  nervous  about  our  trains,  we  didn't 
know  what  we  were  about.  Whatever  you  wear 
them  for  I  can't  think.  Just  when  you  want  to 
have  all  your  courage  about  you,  you  put  on  a 
thing  four  yards  long  to  take  it  off.  Why,  here's 
Miss  Wake  again;  we  saw  her  just  now  at  the 
Duke's. 

Gerald.  [^Aside  to  Algy.]  Does  she  always 
talk  as  much  as  this? 

Wake.  Never  leaves  off  while  she's  awake. 
When  she's  asleep  probably  snores.  [Goes 
towards  her.'\  How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Calson?  Hope 
you  don't  forget  me — was  at  Lexham,  you  know. 

Mrs.   C.     Why,  it's  Mr.  Wake.     Of  course  I 


THE    MODERN    WAY  235 

don't  forget.  I  saw  you  walking  about  in  the 
Park  with  Miss  Dolwyn  this  morning.  I  think 
her  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever  set  eyes  on. 
Wake.  So  do  I.  [With  a  foolish  laugh.]  Oh, 
there's     Miss     Calson — I     didn't     mean     that — I 

meant,  you  know,  she  was  too 

Jennie.      Well,   she's   just   lovely,   anyway.      I 
could  look  at  her  all  day. 

Wake.  So  could  I — I  mean  half  a  day. 
Mrs.  C.  [To  Lady  G.]  These  houses  are  in 
the  most  splendid  position.  It's  such  a  privi- 
lege having  Buckingham  Palace  Gardens  oppo- 
site. I  expect  you  see  them  all  walking  about 
— do   they   enjoy   taking   exercise? 

[The  Duke  and  Algy  get  together. 

Lady  G.     Well,   I'm  afraid   I   can't  tell  you; 

we    don't   look    for   them — they   mightn't   like   it. 

I  think  you  have  met  my  daughter,  Mrs.   Mass- 

ington  ? 

[Looking   towards   Rhoda    rvho   is   talking 
to  the  SiLcoTS. 
Rhoda.       [Getting    up     reluctantly,    evidently 
hored.]      How  do  you  do? 

[She  goes  back  l.,  and  Margaret  and  the 

SiLcoTs  group. 
[Gerald    Massington    goes    towards    bal- 
cony. 
Mrs.  C.     Why,  yes,  we  have  met  several  times. 
I  understand,  too,  that  you  have  a  most  delight- 


236  THE   MODERN   WAY 

ful   son — in  the  Guards.     We  hope  to  make  his 
acquaintance. 

Jennie.     Guardsmen  must  have  a  lovely  time 
— I  expect  he  is  longing  to  be  a  hero. 
Enter  Freddie,  Lord  Gaysford,  in  uniform,  any 
regiment  of  Guards.     Twenty-four,  and  boy- 
ish. 

Lady  G.  You  must  ask  him  that  question,  I 
think.  Here  he  is.  [To  Freddie.]  My  darling 
— I  have  been  hoping  for  you. 

Freddie.  [Going  up  to  his  mother  and  hiss- 
ing her  quite  simply.]  I  was  afraid  I  shouldn't 
get  here  after  all,  Mum.  Is  your  head  better? 
How  do  you  do,  Duke?  [To  Wake,  with  rather  a 
disagreeable   nod.]      There   you   are. 

Wake.  [With  a  silly  smile.]  Saw  you  this 
morning.      Wondered   if   you   saw  me. 

Freddie.  I  saw  you.  [Goes  over  to  Margaret, 
who  is  still  talking  to  Rhoda;  she  gets  up,  and 
they  look  at  each  other  in  rather  an  intense  man- 
ner.]     Margaret!  this  is  good. 

[Puts    his    hand   on    Rhoda's   shoulder   by 
way  of  greeting. 

Margaret.  [To  Freddie.]  How  late  you 
are.  [Half  aside.]  I  have  so  many  things  to 
say  to  you. 

Rhoda.  Why  don't  you  and  Margaret  shake 
hands?     Have  you  seen  each  other  before  to-day? 

Margaret.     No. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  237 

Freddie.  We  never  shake  hands — that's  part 
of  it. 

Rhoda.     Part  of  what? 

Margaret.  [Gravely  to  Freddie.]  They 
don't  understand. 

[Margaret  and  Freddie  look  as  if  they 
were  going  to  talk  together,  when  Lady 
Gaysford  comes  forward  with  Mrs. 
CaI/Son    and   Jennie    Calson. 

Lady  G.  Freddie,  dear,  the  Duke  has  kindly 
brought  two  American  friends.  I  want  to  intro- 
duce you  to  them — Mrs.  Calson — and  Miss  Jen- 
nie  Calson. 

Freddie.  \Whose  manners  should  he  quite 
unaffected. "]  How  do  you  do?  Kind  of  you  to 
come.  [Shakes  hands. 

Mrs.  C.  It's  a  great  privilege  to  meet  any  one 
wearing  that  beautiful  uniform.  My  niece,  Anna, 
over  in  New  York,  says,  after  the  King  and 
Queen,  she  longs  most  to  see  the  Guardsmen  in 
England.  Only  she's  quite  sure  she'd  lose  her 
heart  to  them  all. 

Freddie.     They  would  like  that. 

Jennie.  [To  Freddie.]  Miss  Margaret  Wake 
told  us  a  great  deal  about  you  to-day — we  met 
her  at  her  uncle's,  the  Duke  of  Lexham — ^that's 
why  we  hoped  to  meet  you. 

Freddie.  I  dare  say  she  was  much  too  kind. 
[With  the  grave  simplicity  with  which  he  always 


238  THE    MODERN   WAY 

speaks  of  Margaret.]  She  is  my  friend.  Won't 
you  come  out  to  the  balcony?  They'll  be  here 
directly. 

Rhoda.  You've  seen  them  already,  Freddie; 
how  do  they  look? 

Freddie.  Why,  they  look — ^well,  just  as  they 
always  do,  you  know. 

Jennie.  Do  you  hear  that,  mother?  Isn't  it 
splendid?  I  suppose  you  don't  know  what  the 
Queen  wore  now.  Lord  Gaysford?  My  Cousin 
Anna  in  New  York  will  want  to  know — ^^she'U 
want  to  know  everything. 

Gerald.  \^Aside  to  Wake.]  Does  she  always 
bring  in  Anna  of  New  York? 

Wake.     Always. 

Freddie.  [To  Jennie  Calson.]  She  wore 
— it  was  something — ^well,  you  know  it  was  the 
sort  of  thing  she  always  wears — awfully  nice. 

Jennie.     Don't  you  know  what  colour  it  was? 

Freddie.  It  was  blue,  I  think — no,  it  was 
mauve.  I  think  it  was  mauve,  it  was  some  col- 
our, I  know.  Let  me  take  you  to  the  balcony — 
then  you  will  see  directly  that  I'm  right. 

\^Gets  rid  of  the  Calsons  into  the  bal- 
cony.'] 

Rhoda.  [^Still  talking  with  Margaret.]  Yes, 
I  know,  but  what  is  one  to  do?  Everything  else 
is  played  out. 

[Rhoda   and   Margaret   saunter   towards 


THE   MODERN   WAY  239 

balcony,  hut  stop  inside  drawing-room. 
Rhoda  meets  Freddie  on  his  way  hack 
from  the  halcony. 
Rhoda.      [To  Freddie.]      I  do  so  want  a  talk 
with  you. 

Freddie.      Ill    come    directly    I've    spoken    to 
Lady  Silcot. 

[Goes  over  to  Lady  Silcot,  who  has  heen 

trying  to  waylay  him. 
[The  Duke  and  Wake  still  talking  on  r. 
Duke.  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you,  sir,  if 
you  behave  yourself  [speaks  significantly^  but 
I've  no  intention  of  allowing  you  a  large  income. 
You  must  do  something  for  a  living — the  Radi- 
cals will  be  down  on  you  if  you  don't — or  you 
must   marry   money. 

[Looks  significantly  towards  Miss  Calson. 

Wake.     It  takes  a  woman 

Duke.  I  invited  Mrs.  Calson  and  her  daugh- 
ter to  Lexham  solely  on  your  account — to  let 
her  see  you  had  family  connections.  Miss  Cal- 
son is  a  charming  girl,  and  she  has  £42,000  a 
year.  Why  didn't  you  ask  her  to  marry  you? 
If  she  didn't  particularly  care  for  you,  she  might 
have  liked  the  place. 
Wake.     I  did — no  go. 

Duke.      I    am   not   surprised.      What   did   she 
say? 

Wake.       Said     her     country    wanted     ageing. 


240  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Likes    older    men — that    sort    of    thing — they've 
got  young  men  over  there. 

Duke.  Dear  me.  She's  a  very  remarkable 
girl. 

Wake.  I've  asked  Margaret  to  marry  me  two 
or  three  times,  but  she  won't  either — cousins, 
you  know — it  would  be  so  dull.  I'm  on  to  Miss 
Dolwyn  now — the  girl  who  drives  the  piebald 
ponies  round  the  park. 

Duke.     Dolwyn?     Let  me  see,  mho  is  she? 

Wake.  Nobody.  People  made  their  money 
by  a  patent  corkscrew. 

Duke.  [Makes  a  sign  of  slight  disgust,]  I 
remember,  of  course — not  the  sort  of  thing  I  care 
for;  but  it  is  an  excellent  corkscrew — works  eas- 
ily— and  sells   largely,  no   doubt? 

Wake.  Tons  of  it.  They  go  everywhere — 
live  in  Park  Lane. 

Duke.     Of  course.     They   are  very   rich? 

Wake.     Rolling. 

Duke.      Handsome   girl,  isn't  she? 

Wake.  Rather !  Going  to  see  her  at  the  War- 
ringfords'  to-night. 

Duke.  Humph!  I'U  drop  in  for  half  an 
hour,  and  look  at  her — might  be  as  well 

Servant.       [Announcing.']       Mr.    Tremayne. 

Freddie.  [Coming  forrvard,  glad  to  escape 
from  Lady  Silcot.]  My  dear  chap,  I  was  hop- 
ing you'd  turn  up. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  241 

Duke.     [To  Tremayne.]     I  thought  you  were 
off  to  Constantinople? 

Tremayne.  I  start  for  Paris  at  nine  to-night 
.  .  .  go  on  to  Constantinople  in  the  morning. 
Lady  G.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tremayne.'* 
Many  congratulations  on  your  appointment. 
[To  the  Duke.]  They'll  be  here  soon.  Won't 
you  come  to  the  window,  and  see  that  Miss  Cal- 
son  has  a  good  place? 

[The    Duke    and    Algy    go    together    to- 
wards the  balcony,  tvhere  the  Calsons 
make  room  for  them. 
[Freddie    detains    Tremayne    for    a    mo- 
ment. 
Freddie.       [To    Tremayne.]       Look    here,    I 
must  speak  to  you  presently. 

Tremayne.     Right.     I'll  come  back  in  a  min- 
ute. 

[Nods   significantly   and  goes   and   speaks 
to  Rhoda. 

[Freddie  turns  to  Lady  Gaysford. 
Freddie.      Mum,   dear,   do   come  to   me   for   a 
minute;   they  are  all  right  there.      [Nodding  to- 
wards balcony.]      I  shan't  see  you  again  to-day. 
I  am  going  back  in  an  hour. 

Lady  G.     Yes,  dear.     I  have  been  longing  to 
see  you.     I   forget  where  you're  dining. 

Freddie.      At   Lady   Bilson's — she's    taking   us 
all   on  to   the   Warringfords.      I   wanted   to   tell 


242  THE   MODERN   WAY 

you — [They  sit  down  together  r.  for  a  moment] 
— IVe  been  thinking  things  over — making  up  my 
mind.     I  mean — to  risk  it. 

Lady  G.     You  mean.^ 

Freddie.  That's  it — I  mean  to  ask  Sybil  Dol- 
wyn.  Margaret  feels  sure  it's  all  right,  and  she 
always  knows   everything. 

Lady  G.     I  wish  it  were  Margaret. 

Freddie.  But  she  is  my  friend.  .  .  .  You 
don't   know    Sybil. 

Lady  G.  [Reluctantly.]  She's  very  handsome, 
of  course. 

Freddie.  She's  wonderful;  she  looks  like  a 
young  Empress,  like  a  goddess,  by  Jove!  Why, 
every  one  looks  after  her  even  in  the  street. 
I  can't  believe  it's  any  good,  but  I  mean  to 
risk  it. 

Lady  G.  I  thought  you  said  she  was  coming 
to-day.  I  asked  her  and  her  mother,  as  you 
wished  it. 

Freddie.  She  told  me  she  was,  then  she  said 
she  didn't  think  she  could  manage  it.  I  tele- 
graphed to  know  if  I  might  fetch  them,  and 
she  answered,  "Awfully  sorry;  can't  come."  I 
was   so  glad   she  said  awfully. 

Lady.  G.     You  are  very  fond  of  her? 

Freddie.     I  love  her — she  is  ripping. 

Lady  G.  [Trying  to  taJce  it  well.]  And  you 
are  really  going  to  ask  her  to  marry  you? 


THE    MODERN    WAY  243 

Freddie.  To-night  if  I  get  the  chance.  Wish 
me  luck,  mother — wish  me  luck. 

Lady  G.  I  do,  I  do,  Freddie,  dear.  I'll  try 
and  love  her  because  you  do — I  will. 

Freddie.      [Touching  her  hand.]      Mum  dear! 

Rhoda.  [Coming  up  to  them  with  Tremayne. 
To  Lady  Gaysford.]  Do  let  me  have  Freddie 
for  a  little  while.     I   do  so  want  him. 

Lady  G.  [A  little  emotioned,  but  trying  to 
hide  it.]  Yes,  of  course.  Shall  we  see  what  is 
going  on,  Mr.   Tremayne? 

[She  turns  to  Tremayne;  they  go  towards 
balcony. 

[Freddie  sits  down  by  Rhoda. 

Rhoda.  I  do  so  want  to  speak  to  you,  Freddie. 
I  am  up  another  tree. 

Freddie.  Oh — you  are  always  getting  up  a 
tree,  dear. 

Rhoda.  But  this  is  a  dreadful  one,  and  you 
know  what  Gerald's  temper  is. 

Freddie.  Well,  no,  I  don't;  but,  of  course, 
you  do. 

Rhoda.  I  believe  that  Dawson  woman  keeps 
a  gambling  house,  or  something  like  it.  Last 
night  I  lost  <£l60,  and  I  haven't  .£20  in  the 
world  without  telling  Gerald. 

Freddie.  [Kindly  but  firmly.]  Look  here, 
you  shouldn't  do  it.     You  know  you  shouldn't. 

Rhoda.     Well,  but 


244  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Freddie.  It's  a  hprrid  trick — in  a  woman^  los- 
ing money;  if  she  wants  to  get  rid  of  it,  I  think 
she  should  spend  it  on  finery — that's  all  right, 
you  know.  If  I  had  a  wife,  and  she  lost  a  lot 
of  money  gambling,  I  should  be  awfully  angry. 
And  I  would  never  let  her  go  again  to  the  house 
where  she  had  lost  it. 

Rhoda.  [Astonished.]  Freddie!  I  never 
thought  you  would  say  that  sort  of  thing. 

Freddie.  I  didn't  either.  But  I've  been  think- 
ing about  life  and  all  sorts  of  serious  things 
lately. 

Rhoda.  You  mustn't,  you'll  end  up  as  a  cur- 
ate if  you  do.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  I  told  you. 
But  I'm  in  an  awful  fix  and  I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  help  me.  I  didn't  sleep  all  night,  I've  had 
neuralgia  all  the  morning,  I  didn't  eat  any  lunch- 
eon— I  believe  I  could  die  and  not  mind  it — 
I  could  do  anything  except  tell  Gerald.  Oh, 
Freddie,  do  help  me. 

Freddie.  Of  course  I'll  help  you;  what  are 
brothers  for — only  don't  do  it  again,  there's  a 
dear  girl.     When  do  you  want  it.'' 

Rhoda.  I  must  have  it  to-morrow  morning 
and  notes,  not  a  cheque. 

Freddie.  All  right,  I'll  give  it  to  you  at  the 
Warringfords    to-night,    will   that   do? 

Rhoda.     Oh,  Freddie  dear! 


THE    MODERN   WAY  245 

Freddie,  I  want  you  to  try  and  say  Fred; 
Freddie  sounds  like  some  one  who  doesn't  think 
of  serious  things  you  know. 

Rhoda.  l^Astonished.]  What  is  the  matter 
with  you?  You  are  so  different  since  you  be- 
came friends  with  Mrs.  Merlin  and  Margaret 
Wake. 

Freddie.  I  know,  Tremayne  used  to  be  my 
only  chum.  But  it  isn't  that — it's  something 
awfully  good.  [Reaches  out  his  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment and  draws  it  back.']  I'm  going  to  ask 
Sybil  Dolwyn  if  she'll  marry  me,  I'm  awfully  in 
love  with  her — taken  a  regular  header.  I  mean 
to  risk  it  to-night. 

Rhoda.  Oh.  ...  I  can't  think  why  you 
didn't  fall  in  love  with  Margaret.  You  seem  so 
fond  of  each  other. 

Freddie.  Of  course  we  are,  but  we  are  friends 
— it   is   quite   different,   you   know. 

Rhoda.  You  have  been  inseparable  for  such 
a  long  time.  Do  you  mean  to  say  it  is  all 
platonics  ^ 

Freddie.  Poor  dear  Rhoda,  you  don't  under- 
stand. 

Rhoda.     No,  I   don't. 

[Tremayne   and  Margaret  come  towards 
them. 

Freddie.      ILooks  up  and  says  quite  simply,] 


246  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Rhoda  doesn't  understand  a  bit  about  our  friend- 
ship^ do  tell  her  about  it.  It  was  when  we  were 
both   staying   at   the   Stickindales,   wasn't   it? 

Margaret.  Two  years  ago.  The  weather  was 
dreadful  and  it  was  a  horrid  middle-aged  house- 
party — quite  old  in  fact. 

Freddie.  Not  a  creature  under  forty,  you 
know. 

Margaret.  I  was  bored  to  death.  Suddenly 
Freddie  arrived 

Freddie.  We  knew  directly  we  should  like 
each  other.     She  made  me  do  a  lot  of  things. 

Rhoda.     What  sort  of  things? 

Freddie.     Well,  read  books. 

Margaret.  Learn  some  Omar  Khayyam  by 
heart. 

Rhoda.     [Looks  up  inquiringly.']     What's  that? 

Tremayne.  Persian  beggar,  you  know,  lived 
in  a  tent  or  made  tents  or  something.  Knew  a 
lot  about  flowers  and  wine  and  heaps  of  things. 

Rhoda.  Think  I've  heard  of  him.  Dead,  isn't 
he? 

Freddie.     Oh,  yes,  quite  dead. 

Rhoda.     What  else? 

Margaret.  Go  to  the  Queen's  Hall  con- 
certs. 

Rhoda.     Oh,   that's   why! 

Margaret.  Go  to  the  Stage  Society  plays  and 
read   some  books   on   Philosophy. 


THE    MODERN    WAY  247 

Freddie.  I  drew  the  line  at  the  philosophy 
— after  a  bit,  you  know;  but  I  went  to  a  Bernard 
Shaw  play — they  talked  a  great  deal,  and  made 
jokes  I  think;  and  people  laughed,  but  there 
wasn't   any  love-making. 

Rhoda.  [Laughing  and  puzzled.^  I  think 
you  are  too  ridiculous.     Oh,  Margaret,  I  want  to 

ask  you 

[^Saunters  away  with  Margaret. 
[Tremayne  and  Freddie   together  on  l. 

Freddie.  It's  an  awful  bore,  you're  going 
away,  old   man. 

Tremayne.  Nine  o'clock  at  Victoria  to-night 
and   good-bye  to   England. 

Freddie.     I   shall  miss  you  awfully. 

Tremayne.  You  must  come  out  and  see  me 
next  time  you  get  leave.  Might  have  come  with 
me,  but  I  think  you  said  your  time  was  up  next 
Monday. 

Freddie.  Besides,  I  couldn't  just  now.  I 
should  like  to  come  and  see  you  off,  but  I'm  din- 
ing out,  and  going  on  to  Warringford  House.  I 
want  you  to  know,  old  chap — I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  risk  it 

Tremayne.  [Looking  round  slowly.^  The 
dolphin  ? 

Freddie.  That's  it,  but  we  won't  call  her  that 
any  more. 

Tremayne.     Sounds  fishy,  doesn't  it? 


248  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Freddie.  Awfully  fishy,  but — er — ^but  what 
do  you  think  of  it? 

Tremayne.     Beautiful  girl — no  end  of  go. 

Freddie.  Any  amount — I  hope  it'll  be  all 
right. 

Tremayne.     Sure  to.     You're  a  nice  chap > 

Freddie.      Heaps   of   *em   about. 

Tremayne.     A  title 

Freddie.      They're   awfully  cheap  just  now. 

Tremayne.  Pretty  well  protected  though — 
only  thing  that  is  at  present.  .  .  .  except  the 
working   class 

Freddie.  Don't  joke,  Tremayne — it's  the 
wrong  time.  .  .  .  Wish  I  could  feel  it's  all 
right. 

Tremayne.  Why,  of  course  it's  all  right. 
You've  been  as  thick  as  thieves  for  the  last  five 
weeks.  I  saw  Algernon  Wake  look  as  if  he'd  like 
to  murder  you  on  Thursday 

Freddie.  Poor  beggar!  I'm  awfully  sorry 
for  him — it's  the  second  time  he's  been  hit.  He's 
always  on  her  track — makes  himself  into  my 
shadow. 

Tremayne.     Never  mind,  you're  the  substance. 

Freddie.  [Uneasily.']  Wish  I  could  be  sure 
of  that,  you  know.  Wake  has  been  hanging  roimd 
a  good  deal  lately. 

Tremayne.     He  always  hangs   about 

Freddie.     Perhaps  it's  all  right.     She  let  me 


THE    MODERN   WAY  249 

hold  her  hand  for  ten  minutes  the  night  before 
last.  Should  have  spoken  then  but  I  broke  her 
fan 

Tremayne.     Did  she  swear? 

Freddie.  Not  a  bit.  Awfully  sweet  about 
it — that's  why  I  think  it  must  be  all  right — she 
would  have  sworn  if  she  hadn't  cared. 
Went  to  the  play  last  night,  her  people  took  a 
box,  a  big  one,  family  party.  Awfully  signifi- 
cant their  asking  me  you  know?  On  the  way 
back  motor  broke  down,  she  let  me  take  her  on 
in  a  hansom. 

Tremayne.     Well,   she   couldn't  walk. 

Freddie.  Might  have  gone  on  with  some  one 
else — we  all  had  to  go  on  in  hansoms  or  taxis  or 
something.  ...  I  asked  for  two  dances  to- 
night on  purpose — I  feel  awfully  nervous — I  sup- 
pose one  always  does.  Can't  believe  she'll  play 
up,  when  I  think  of  what  a  stunner  she  is. 

Tremayne.  Wait  till  after  supper  if  you  can, 
it  helps  to  get  one's  courage  up. 

Freddie.  I  will — but  I  wish  you  weren't  go- 
ing away.  Look  here,  I'll  send  you  a  wire  to 
Paris  in  the  morning,  telling  you  if  it's  all  right. 
You'll  be  at  the  Bristol  I  suppose? 

Tremayne.  Only  for  an  hour  or  two.  I  start 
again  at  nine  or  some  unearthly  time  of  that 
sort.  Write  to  Constantinople,  but  it's  sure  to 
be  all  right. 


250  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Freddie.     I  shall  blow  my  brains  out  if  it  isn't. 
Tremayne.      Nonsense,    old    chap,   besides   you 
haven't  any.     .     .     .     But  I  say  you  are  pretty 
far  gone? 

Freddie.  Rather — never  saw  any  one  like  her, 
sweeps  you  off  your  feet,  you  know.     This  time 

to-morrow  I  shall  be  the  happiest  man  alive  or 

[Puts  his  hand  to  his  head  as  if  holding  a 
pistol. 
Tremayne.        [Looking    at     him     doubtfully.^ 
Nonsense ! 

Freddie.      It  isn't   nonsense.      I   mean  it. 

[Rhoda  and  Margaret  on  l.  laughing. 
Tremayne.      [As  Freddie  goes  towards  them.] 
Oh,   no,   you   don't,   old   chap;   but  you   are   hard 
hit — [when  he  is  out  of  hearing]   and  quite  capa- 
ble of  making   an  ass   of  yourself. 

Freddie.  I  say,  Rhoda,  you  have  had  Mar- 
garet long  enough  now,  she  and  I  haven't  had 
a  word  together. 

Servant.      [Announcing.]      Mrs.    Merlin. 

[Lady  Gaysford  comes  from  balcony  and 

greets  her.     Mrs.  Merlin  is  34  or  35, 

very  soft   and  purring  in  her  manner, 

wears   trailing  rather  artistic  things. 

Mrs.    M.      [Takes    Lady    Gaysford's    hand    in 

both  hers.]     It  was  dear  of  you  to  send  for  me. 

Lady  G.     I  was  afraid  you  weren't  coming. 

Mrs.   M.     I  thought  I   should  never  get  here. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  251 

That   dear    Sir    Charles    Bassett  brought   me — no 
driving,  of  course;  we  had  to  walk. 

Lady  G.  Let  us  have  some  tea,  we  shall  be 
sure  to  hear  the  cheers  when  they  are  in  sight, 
you  must  be  so  exhausted. 

Mrs.  M.  [To  Freddie.]  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you  and  dear  Margaret — ^you  two  are  always  to- 
gether. 

Margaret.  [Simply  and  gravely."]  We  are 
great,  great  friends. 

Mrs.  M.  I  know.  He  is  my  friend  too,  you 
mustn't  think  he  doesn't  love  me,  I  know  he  does. 

Freddie.     Of  course  I   do,  ever  so  much. 

Gerald.  [Turning  his  head.]  Oh,  I  say,  there 
is  tea  going  on. 

[Everybody    comes    in    from    balcony,    F. 
and  M.  sit  left. 

Freddie.  [To  Margaret.]  We  shall  meet  to- 
night? [They  get  to  seat  on  l.]  You  must  keep 
four  dances  for  me — we'll  sit  out  two. 

Margaret.  I'm  not  going — isn't  it  provoking.^ 
Mother  will  insist  on  our  going  to  that  party  at 
Wimbledon,  it's  a  coming  of  age  thing,  and  they 
are  old  friends  of  hers. 

Freddie.  Oh,  I  say,  it's  awfully  hard  luck.  I 
thought  of  course  you  were  going  to  the  War- 
ringfords — I  want  you.  Couldn't  you  come  early 
for  half  an  hour? 

Margaret.     I   fear  not.     We  are  to  drive  to 


252  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Wimbledon  after  the  Marsden  Lees  dinner — I 
can't  help  hoping  that  mother  may  be  too  tired. 
She's  been  selling  things  all  day  at  the  Albert 
Hall  and  is  going  there  again  to-morrow.  Now 
we've  got  a  chance  do  tell  me  what  you  are  going 
to  do.     It  seems  years  since  we  had  a  talk. 

Freddie.  I  know — we've  not  met  since  yes- 
terday morning.  .  .  .  Margaret,  I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  ask  her. 

Margaret.  \^Clasping  her  hands,  she  seems 
thrilled,  hut  not  pleased.^     Oh,  Freddie! 

Freddie.  Try  and  say  Fred:  responsibilities 
of  life  and  that  sort  of  thing  coming  on,  you  know 
it  sounds  better. 

Margaret.     [Tenderly. 1     I  will,  Freddie,  dear. 

Freddie.  [Puts  his  hand  on  hers  and  draws 
it  away  saying  half  to  himself  and  half  to  her.] 
Mustn't  do  that,  must  I.^     Comrades   don't. 

Margaret.  No,  but  we  are  real  comrades, 
Freddie — Fred,  dear — I'm  very  glad  [with  a 
sigh.]  Oh!  I  do  hope  she'll  make  you  very,  very 
happy. 

Freddie.  It's  splendid  of  you  to  be  so  anxious. 
You  think  it  is  all  right,  don't  you?  You  see 
that  idiot  Algernon  Wake  is  always  hanging  about. 

Margaret.  But  she  couldn't  care  for  him. 
Why,  his  ears  stick  out !     [Looking  towards  Wake. 

Freddie.     Still  he'll  be  a  duke  one  day,  some- 


THE    MODERN   WAY  253 

times  girls  care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  I've  got 
money,  of  course,  but  that  isn't  any  good  to  her 
— she  has  pots  of  her  own. 

Margaret.      You've   got  yourself. 

Freddie.     That  isn't  much. 

Margaret.  Yes,  it  is.  [Pause.']  I  do  so  hope 
that  you  really — really — love  her?  It  would  be 
dreadful,  if  you  married  her  and  didn't  love 
her  enough. 

Freddie.  I'm  awfully  gone  on  her,  swear  I 
am.  Look  here,  I  shall  try  and  get  through  after 
supper.     Think  of  me 

Margaret.     We  shall  be  driving  to  Wimbledon. 

Freddie.  I'll  come  and  tell  you  all  about  it 
in  the  morning  if  I  may? 

Margaret.  I'm  going  to  sleep  at  Wimbledon. 
You  might  telegraph  to  me  there  **  Lancaster 
Lodge,  Wimbledon  Common,"  and  come  to  Pont 
Street  at  three — no,  at  four,  to-morrow.  I  shall 
be  back  by  then.  You  must  tell  me  everything 
she  says — we  have  been  such  great  chums,  you 
know. 

Freddie.  Of  course  we  have,  and  it  isn't  go- 
ing to  make  any  difference  is  it?  I  don't  think 
I  could  get  on  without  you — in  fact,  I  couldn't. 

Margaret.      Oh,   yes,   you   could.      I   wish 

[Stops,  puts  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

Freddie.     I  say,  is  there  anything  I  could  do 


254  THE    MODERN   WAY 

to  please  you?  You  look  as  if  you'd  gone  down 
a  ladder,  you  know. 

Margaret.  [Half  sadly.]  I  want  you  to  take 
it  seriously,  Freddie,  dear.  I  think  if  you  read 
some  Rossetti  before  you  started,  or  Browning; 
I'm  not  sure  that  Browning  wouldn't  be  better 
if — but  it  won't.  Some  people  would  say  Swin- 
burne, you  know;  but  I  think  he  should  be  taken 
later,  when  one  is  in  the  depths — there's  no  one 
like   him    for   bitter   despair. 

Freddie.  I'll  read  the  whole  lot  of  them  if 
you  like,  and  there's  time.  You  always  give  one 
the  straight  tip.  [Noticing  Miss  Calson,  who  has 
come  to  the  tea-table.]     Can  I  get  you  anything? 

Jennie.  Well,  I  was  just  looking  for  a  little 
milk,  you  seem  to  only  have  cream  here,  you're 
that  luxurious  in  England 

Freddie.  Oh,  well  now,  just  think  of  New 
York. 

Jennie.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  think  of  a 
place  I  don't  come  from. 

Freddie.  I  thought  you  lived  there — that 
Americans  always  had  town-houses  there  any- 
how  

Jennie.  Well,  now,  isn't  that  like  people  who 
don't  know?  Why,  I've  only  been  there  once  in 
my  life,  and  I  don't  think  I'll  go  many  times. 
I  am  a  Westerner;  I  daresay  you  don't  know 
what  that  means  now.  Lord  Gaysford? 


THE    MODERN   WAY  255 

Freddie.  I  suppose  it  means  the — well,  the 
West. 

Jennie.     That  isn't  a  bad  shot. 

Freddie.  I've  heard  a  lot  about  it — it's  a  great 
big  country,  isn't  it.f* 

Jennie.  There  isn't  much  of  it  left  now  but 
there's  some — perhaps  that'll  be  allowed  to  stay 
as  it  is.  God  knew  what  He  was  about  when  He 
made  the  world,  and  when  man  takes  to  improving 
it,  I  don't  think  he's  much  of  a  success,  do  you? 
Have  you  ever  talked  on  this  subject  with  any  of 
the  great  thinkers.^  I  mean  about  the  world  and 
what's  done  to  it. 

Freddie.  How  do  you  mean?  ...  I  think 
I  know — but  in  London  people  only  talk  of  them- 
selves or  of  each  other — always  playing  up,  or 
playing  off  or  something — and  the  world  gets  a 
bit  battered. 

Jennie.  Well,  you  see,  out  there  in  the  West 
there  are  the  mountains  and  the  great  forests  and 
the  rivers  and  all  the  things  designed  up  in 
Heaven;  and  life  among  them  is  just  simple  and 
natural.  ...  In  New  York  and  over  here  in 
Europe,  you've  just  carted  away  nature  as  much 
as  you  could  and  set  up  towns  and  all  the  things 
that  I  suppose  you  call  art — how  in  wonder  you 
live  the  lives  you  do  I  can't  imagine. 

Freddie.  It  sounds  splendid — out  in  the  West, 
I  mean — but  what  do  you  do  all  day? 


256  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Jennie.  Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you.  You  get  up 
at  five,  for  one  thing,  in  the  summer  anyway — 
you  see  the  sun  rise 

Freddie.  We  often  do  that  here.  We  wait 
up  for  it,  so  it  would  be  all  right. 

Mrs.  M.  [Coming  forward.]  How  do  you 
do.  Miss  Calson.^  Are  you  two  making  friends? 
I'm  so  glad.  [To  Miss  Calson.]  But  you  must 
let  him  come  and  talk  to  me  for  a  little  while, 
dear.  I  call  him  my  boy,  and  I've  not  seen  him 
for  such  a  long  time. 

Jennie.  Why,  of  course — I  mustn't  keep  him 
from  you — besides,  I  think  we  must  be  going,  if 
these  royalties  don't  come  by — we've  things  to 
do — [gets  up] — at  least 

Freddie.  They'll  be  here  directly — don't  go, 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  some  more  about  the  West 
— I  often  think  a  good  deal  of  the  way  we  go 
on  is  rot — we  do  it  over  and  over  again, 
and  it  doesn't  matter  a  bit  if  we're  bored. 

Mrs.  M.      [Intensely.]      That's  so  true! 

[No  one  notices  her. 

Jennie.  [To  Freddie.]  I'll  tell  you  any- 
thing you  like — perhaps  you  are  going  to  Lady 
Warringford's  ball  to-night,  and  we'll  meet 
there.  But  you've  got  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Merlin 
now 

Freddie.     She'll  like  talking  to  you  better 


Mrs.  C.     [From  balcony.]     Jennie,  you  really 


THE   MODERN   WAY  257 

must  come;  it's  quite  wonderful  to  look  out — it 
is  just  what  we  say  it  is  at  home. 

Mrs.  M.  l^Sitting  down  and  motioning  Fred- 
die to  sit  beside  her,  while  Miss  Calson  goes  to 
balcony.']  I  thought  I  should  never  get  a  moment 
with  you,  but  I  know  how  many  things  you  have 
to  do. 

Freddie.  {^Gratefully.'}  You  always  under- 
stand. 

Mrs.  M.  I  feel  as  if  you*d  something  to  tell 
me. 

Freddie.  [Nodding  an  affirmative.]  But  we 
can't  talk  here.  Are  you  ging  to  Warringford 
House  to-night.'' 

Mrs.  M.  I  can't.  They  expect  royalties;  it 
will  be  such  a  dreadful  crush.  I'm  so  afraid  of 
crushes  now.  {Pulls  her  chiffon  scarf  up  closer 
round  her  neck.]  Let  us  sit  down  here,  no  one 
will  hear  what  we  are  saying.  [Very  confiden- 
tially.]    Now  tell  me,  is  Sybil  going  to-night.'' 

Freddie.  Yes,  she's  going.  [Pause.]  And  I 
mean  to  risk  it — if  I  get  a  chance.  I  believe 
they've  covered  in  the  gardens — or  done  some- 
thing,  anyway. 

Mrs.  M.  She's  a  beautiful  creature.  I*m  not 
sure  that  she's  quite — quite  good  enough  for  you, 
dear. 

Freddie.  [Rather  hurt.]  You  are  not  think- 
ing of  the  corkscrews? 


258  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Mrs.  M.  [In  an  anxious  voice.]  No.  I'm 
not  thinking  of  the  corkscrew.  That  sort  of 
thing  doesn't  matter  nowadays. 

Freddie.  Besides,  she  looks  like  an  Empress. 
Her  people  must  be  somebodies. 

Mrs.  M.  Perhaps  they've  come  down  in  the 
world. 

Freddie.  And  are  climbing  up  again  by  the 
corkscrew 

Mrs  M.  And  they  are  very  rich  .  .  .  She's 
a  lucky  girl — if  you  love  her 

Freddie.     Perhaps  she  won't  have  me. 

[Nervously. 

Mrs.  M.  Oh,  yes,  she  will.  Algernon  Wake  has 
been  hanging  about  her  a  good  deal. 

Freddie.  I  know.  But  I  don't  think  she 
would  have  him — Margaret  is  certain  she  wouldn't. 

Mrs.  M.     He'll  be  a  duke  some  day — but  she 

mayn't  know  that — and  she'll  have  you 

[Touches    his    hand   and   smiles. 

Freddie.     I   shall  go  under  if  she  doesn't. 

Mrs.  M.  No,  you  won't,  dear.  You'll  face  it 
like  a  man — but  it'll  be  all  right.  Isn't  she  two 
years  older  than  you  are.f* 

Freddie.  Yes,  but  that  doesn't  matter  a  bit. 
I  asked  her  the  other  night  if  she  thought  it 
mattered.  I  never  saw  a  girl  like  her — I'm  aw- 
fully gone  on  her. 

Mrs.   M.      [Gives   him  a  fatuous  smile.     Puts 


THE    MODERN   WAY  259 

aut  her  hand.]     Poor  boy!     Of  course  she's  very 
handsome 

Freddie.      She's   splendid. 

Mrs.  M.  I  always  thought  you'd  end  by  mar- 
rying Margaret. 

Freddie.     She's  my  friend. 

Mrs.  M.  It  would  have  been  a  much  better  con- 
nection, you  know.  You  must  come  to-morrow 
and  tell  me  everything.  ...  I  shall  go  away 
directly  they  have  gone  by.  [Looking  towards 
the  balcony.]  I  have  to  dine  at  the  Cramptons; 
one  of  their  long  dull  dinners,  I  suppose — I 
couldn't  get  through  without  a  little  rest  first, 
but  I  felt  that  I  must  see  you.  That's  why  I 
came. 

Freddie.  It  was  good  of  you.  I  wish  you  were 
going  to-night. 

Mrs.  M.  ]^Getting  up.]  You  must  tell  me 
everything  to-morrow.  \_In  a  thrilling  voice.] 
Don't  be  nervous;  and  give  her  a  long,  long  kiss 
that  you'll  both  remember  all  your  lives. 

Freddie.     I  say,  you  do  know. 

Mrs.   M.      [Half  closing  her  eyes   and  taking 

his  hands. ^      We've  all  been  through  it,  and 

[Excitement  in  the  balcony — distant  shouts. 

Duke.     Mrs.  Merlin,  where  are  you? 

[Wake  and  Rhoda,  Mrs.  Merlin,  all  in 
the  room  go  towards  the  balcony.  Ex- 
cited exclamations. 


260  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Mrs.  M.     lAs.  she  turns  towards  balcony  with 
Freddie.]     You  must  tell  me  everything  to-mor- 
row. [Ej:it  to  balcony. 
[Freddie  nods  and  looks  towards  Margaret. 
Margaret.       \_In    a    low    voice — almost    sad."] 
Freddie! 

l^It  should  be  quite  evident  that  she  cares 
for  him. 
Freddie.     Margaret!     You  don't  want  to  look 
out? 

[They    stand    together    centre    of    room. 
She  shakes  her  head. 
All.     [In  balcony.]    They  are  coming!   They're 
really  coming !     Yes,  it  is ! 

[Margaret    and    Freddie    seem    to    hear 

nothing. 
[Shouts    grow    louder,    band    in    distance 
plays    "  God    Save    the    King"    cheers 
heard   in    the    distance    as    the    curtain 
falls. 

Curtain. 


ACT  ir 

Time. — Eleven  o'clock  the  same  night. 

Scene. — Conservatory  at  Warringford  House. 
Trees,  florvers,  seats,  S^c.  Exits  r.  and  l. 
at  hack  {or  at  centre),  evidently  leading  to 
ball-room.  Dance  music  heard  faintly  all 
through  the  Act.  An  Exit  on  l.  half  way 
down  the  stage,  presumably  leading  to  gar- 
den. Door  on  r.,  with  curtains,  leading  to 
supper-room.  Two  or  three  small  tables  are 
placed  just  inside  the  conservatory,  near  the 
curtains,  as  if  for  overflow  guests.  In  c. 
group  of  palms  with  settee  beneath  them. 
The  whole  scene  should  be  picturesque,  with 
sitting-out  corners  for  dancers,  S^c.  Guests 
stroll  in  and  out. 

When  the  curtain  rises  Benson  is  discovered.  He 
is  fat,  middle-aged,  and  consequential.  Looks 
round  as  if  puzzled,  goes  to  curtained  door 
on  R.,  beckons. 

Enter  Man-Servant. 

Benson.      That    supper-room    won't    anything 
like  take  them  all. 

961 


262  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Servant.  There's  the  library,  Mr.  Benson — 
but  that's  only  for  their   Royal  Highnesses. 

Benson.  We  could  put  half  a  dozen  tables 
here. 

Servant.  Her  ladyship  said  we  could  put 
them  anywhere. 

Benson.       Two     could     go     here — [indicating 

place] — and   one   here — and 

[Sound  of  laughter. 
Algernon  Wake  and  Sybil  Dolwyn  enter  from 
ball-room  at  back. 
[Sybil  Dolwyn  must  be  handsome,  beau- 
tifully   dressed    and    insolent    in    man- 
ner. 
[Benson  and  Servant  retreat  hastily  into 
supper-room. 
Algy.      [Looking   inane   but   devoted.^      Oh,   I 
say,  but  you  don't  mean  that,  do  you.f* 

Sybil.  Yes  I  do.  If  you  don't  want  it,  of 
course  we'll   consider   it   off. 

Algy.  But  I  want  anything  you  want — you 
know  I  like  'em,  don't  you,  Sybil — so  glad  to 
drop  the  Miss  Dolwyn. 

Sybil.  Very  well,  then.  We'll  consider  it  on 
for  the  present. 

Algy.  Rather  wish  they  weren't  piebald — 
makes    'em  look   so   got   up. 

Sybil.  I  like  them  to  look  got  up — it's  smart 
— don't  want  any  others. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  263 

Algy.  You're  smart.  There  isn't  one  of  'em 
can  touch  you.  Thought  so  this  afternoon  when 
I  saw  you  behind  the  little  beasts — much  better 
than  going  to  Grosvenor  Place — only  just  got 
away  in  time  to  have  a  look  at  you. 

Sybil.  I  drove  them  round  three  times  yes- 
terday. Lady  Barstock  looked  furious.  That's 
the  best  of  their  being  piebald,  you  can't  help 
looking  at  them  specially  when  you  drive  them 
tandem. 

Algy.  I  was  there — saw  you — nearly  raised  a 
cheer. 

Sybil.      Rather   amusing,   wasn't  it? 

Algy.  Awfully.  Told  Uncle  Edward  about 
it  this  afternoon.     Says  he  wants  to  see  you. 

Sybil.     What  for? 

Algy.  iWith  a  silly  little  gestured]  Oh,  well, 
you  know.  .  .  .  He's  heard  about  you.  .  .  . 
You  see,  some  day  I  shall. be  where  he  is 

Sybil.     You  mean  you'll  be  the  Duke? 

Algy.     That's  it — awful  bore  in  some  ways. 

Sybil.  There  are  compensations  still,  I  sup- 
pose; when  you  have  got  through  the  poor  re- 
lations and  the  death  dues — but  I  expect  he'll 
live  as  long  as  he  can  and  only  die  when  he  can't 
help  himself. 

Algy.  Can't  blame  him  for  that.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  dying  myself,  do  you?  Nothing  else  to 
do  when  you've  done  it,  so  far  as  we  know.     \_She 


264^  THE  MODERN  WAY 

gets   up.]      I   say,   what's   the   matter?      It's   aw- 
fully nice  here. 

Sybil.  I  want  to  go  back.  We're  missing 
everything  out  here,  and  I  expect  the  Royalties 
won't  stay  long — I  rather  like  the  Prince — ^the 
Princess  isn't  a  bad  sort  either — she  was  rather 
amusing  the  other  day. 

Algy.  Quite  right.  I  say,  what  do  you  think 
of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury? 

Sybil.  Never  troubled  my  head  about  him — 
should  say  he  would  be  rather  dull. 

Algy.  Or  the  German  Emperor — skittish,  you 
know,  but  not  a  bad  sort  and  toning  down  on  the 
whole,  sorry  for  it,  rather  like  his  skitting. 

Enter  from  ball-room  Margaret  and  Duke 
OF    Lexham   talking. 

Margaret.  Oh,  no — dear  Uncle  Edward — of 
course  not — oh!  [Perceiving  Sybil  and  going 
forward.]  Miss  Dolwyn.  [To  Sybil.]  I 
thought  I  should  meet  you  here.  Have  you  seen 
Lord  Gays  ford?     I  know  he  was  coming. 

[Algy  goes  up  to  the  Duke,  talks  to  him 
aside,  while  Margaret  and  Sybil  are 
talking. 

Sybil.  [Rather  insolently.]  He's  here,  hang- 
ing round  as  usual — I  saw  him  just  now. 

Margaret.  I  wanted  to  see  you  too  so  much 
— but  I'm  not  going  to  stay — I  must  go  directly 
in  fact — couldn't  you  sit  down  for  two  minutes? 


THE    MODERN   WAY  265 

It  would  be  so  nice  to  know  each  other  a  little 
better. 

Sybil.  [Rather  unwillingly.]  Well?  \^Sits 
down  on  settee  with  Margaret.]  Why  are  you 
going  away  so  soon? 

Margaret.  Mother  is  waiting  for  me  in  the 
motor  outside,  we  are  on  our  way  to  a  dance  at 
Wimbledon. 

Sybil.  Wimbledon!  You  wouldn't  catch  me 
going  to  a  dance  at  Wimbledon — there  won't  be 
a  soul  worth  speaking  to  there.     Why  do  you  go? 

Margaret.  \^Choked  off  a  little  by  her  manner, 
and  with  an  unconscious  hauteur.']  They  are  old 
friends  of  my  mother's,  and 

Sybil.  Oh,  I  know — as  bad  as  relations;  aren't 
they?  Always  expecting  you  to  go  and  see  them 
or  something — selfish,  I   call  it. 

Margaret.     Oh,  no! 

Sybil.  Yes,  it  is,  what's  the  good  of  pretend- 
ing it  isn't?  I  never  take  any  notice  of  them 
— ^just  let  them  clamour.  What  did  you  want  to 
see  me  for? 

Margaret.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  for  Lord 
Gaysford  and  I  are  friends  [with  the  note  that 
always  comes  into  her  voice  when  she  says  the 
word]   and  he  told  me  so  much  about  you  to-day. 

Sybil.  [Rather  flattered.]  He's  a  silly  boy. 
Did  he  tell  you  he  smashed  my  fan  the  other 
night  ? 


266  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Margaret.     He  was  very  unhappy  about  it. 

Sybil.  So  was  I — mending  it  will  cost  twelve 
and  sixpence. 

Margaret.  He  would  love  to  give  you  an- 
other, I  know. 

Sybil.  He  can  if  he  likes — I'm  rather  fond  of 
him — in   a   way — nice-looking,   isn't   he? 

Margaret.  [Cheering  Mp.]  I'm  glad  you  say 
that — he's  so  good,  you  know. 

Sybil.  [With  a  funny  little  laugh.]  That's 
against  him — I  think  good  people  are  slow,  don't 
you?  So  little  variety  in  them,  nothing  unex- 
pected. [Evidently  bored  with  the  conversation, 
she  looks  towards  Algy,  who  is  talking  with  the 
Duke;  he  takes  the  hint  and  comes  toward  her.] 
I  get  bored 

Margaret.  Oh,  don't  say  that!  [Seeing  that 
the  interview  is  coming  to  an  end  and  anxious  to 
make  the  most  of  it.]  I  wonder  if  you  would 
come  and  see  me — in  Pont  Street — you  would  al- 
ways find  me  after  five. 

Sybil.  I'll  try.  [With  an  anxious  eye  towards 
Algy  and  the  Duke.]  Can't  promise.  I'm  pretty 
full  up  just  now.  Freddie  Gaysford  told  me  you 
were  very  nice. 

Margaret.  Did  he? — but  he  is  my  friend, 
you  know. 

Sybil.     How  much? 


THE    MODERN   WAY  267 

Margaret.      Much?      I   don't   understand. 

Algy.  [To  Sybil.]  I  say,  I  believe  this  is 
our  dance  and  we  are  losing  it  all — and — er — my 
uncle  wants  to  be  introduced  to  you — heard  lots 
about  you 

Sybil.  [To  the  Duke,  rather  insolently,  put- 
ting hack  her  head,]  How  d'ye  do.f*  Heard  of 
you,  too.  [Puts   out   her   hand. 

Duke.  [Bending  over  it.]  I  am  honoured 
— from  whom? 

Sybil.  Oh,  your  nephew  just  now  .  .  .  Saw 
you  in  the  ball-room. 

Duke.  [Gallantly.']  I've  been  looking  at  you 
from  a  distance. 

Sybil.  Very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure.  Hope 
the  enchantment  it  lent  to  the  view  hasn't  van- 
ished.    Daresay  we  shall  meet  again 

[Turns  to  Algy. 

Algy.     Meet  often,  I  hope. 

[Exit      Sybil,      rather      hurriedly,      with 
Algy. 

Duke.  [Puts  up  his  pince-nez  and  looks  after 
her.  To  Margaret.]  Well,  I  don't  think  much 
of  it. 

Margaret.     Of  what.  Uncle  Edward? 

Duke.  [Nodding  in  the  direction  that  Sybil 
and  Algy  have  gone.]  That!  I  suppose  she  can't 
help  it,  corkscrew  has  turned  her  head. 


268  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Margaret.  [Anxiously.']  Then  it's  not  her 
fault,  is  it?  Don't  you  think  a  bad  manner  is 
sometimes  only  nervousness?  She'll  be  different 
in  time 

Duke.  H'm!  I  dislike  these  people  myself, 
and  a  precious  havoc  they  are  making  of  the 
world;  but  we've  got  to  put  up  with  them,  it's  no 
good  pretending  anything  else,  we've  got  to  put 
up  with  them — and  if  she'll  marry  Algy  she'll 
do  me  a  service. 

Margaret.  [Surprised.]  Oh,  but  she  won't, 
Uncle  Edward,  I  assure  you.  Freddie  Gaysford 
is  in  love  with  her,  and  I  think — I  think  she  likes 
him. 

Duke.  Freddie  Gaysford  in  love  with  her! 
.  .  .  Why,  I  thought  Algy  was  certain  of  her, 
he  said  so.  Well,  I  don't  think  Freddie's  mother 
would  like  the  corkscrew  any  better  than  I  do, 
but  something  must  be  done  or  Lexham  will  be 
a  ruin  .  .  .  Upon  my  life,  I  don't  believe  any 
one  will  take  Algy  off  my  hands,  but  we  shall  see. 
I  wonder  if  those  two  nice  American  women  are 
here  yet — I   know  they're  coming. 

Margaret.     I  like  Miss  Calson. 

Duke.  [With  some  emphasis.]  She's  a  charm- 
ing girl,  has  forty-two  thousand  a  year,  and  not 
a  bit  spoilt  by  it.  I  suppose  they  made  it  by 
cattle  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  it  works  bet- 
ter th^n  e\.  corkscrew.     She  has  told  me  a  great 


THE   MODERN   WAY  269 

deal  about  the  Western  States  of  America;  they 
seem  to  have  some  nature  left  there  still,  as  she 
puts  it,  and  she  has  come  straight  here  without 
being  spoiled  by  the  vagaries  of  New  York. 

Margaret.  You  seem  to  like  her.  Uncle  Ed- 
ward. 

Duke.     Yes,  I  do. 

Margaret.  You  had  her  to  stay  at  Lexham 
with  that  rather  dreadful  mother. 

Duke.  I  don't  think  the  mother  is  dreadful, 
my  dear;  she  is  only  curious,  as  we  all  are  about 
new  things  and  conditions.  I  had  a  little  plot 
to  marry  her  daughter  to  Algy,  but  the  young 
lady  wouldn't  have  anything  to  say  to  him — I 
suppose   I  ought  to  go  and  look  after  them 

Margaret.  [Eagerly.]  Oh,  do  send  Freddie 
to  me  if  you  can.  I  telegraphed  to  him  saying 
I  would  be  here  at  11:15  punctually  for  five  min- 
utes.    I  shall  have  to  go  at  twenty  past. 

Duke.  [Looking  at  watch.']  It's  eighteen 
minutes  past  now. 

Margaret.     And  he  is  generally  so  punctual. 
Enter  Freddie  with  Mrs.  Calson. 

Oh,  here  he  is.  [To  Freddie,  who  comes  to- 
wards her.]  I  was  just  telling  Uncle  Edward 
that  you  are  generally  so  punctual. 

Duke.  [Going  towards  Mrs.  Calson.]  My 
dear  lady,  I  was  going  to  look  for  you.  I  hope 
your  charming  daughter  is  with  you? 


270  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Mrs.  C.  Why  yes^  you  may  be  sure  I  wouldn't 
come  without  her.  We've  been  most  anxious  to 
find  you.  You'll  tell  us  who  every  one  is,  and 
that's  just  what  we  want  to  know — at  least  I 
do — you  see  Jennie  only  cares  for  what  she  calls 
"  a   general   impression/'   that's   why 

Duke.     Couldn't  we  go  and  look  for  her? 

[Ea;it  with  Mrs,   Calson. 
[Freddie  and  Margaret  alone. 

Freddie.  But  it's  splendid  of  you  to  be  here, 
how  did  you  manage  it? 

Margaret.  [Breathlessly.]  I  told  mother 
that  we  must  have  the  motor  for  Wimbledon,  and 
then  I  persuaded  her  to  let  me  come  in  for  five 
minutes  on  the  way — she's  outside  waiting.  I  ex- 
pect she'll  be  dreadfully  cross,  for  you  know  how 
she  hates  motors,  and  it's  grunting  and  groaning 
to-night;  it  simply  whistled  all  the  way  down 
Piccadilly. 

Freddie.  They  always  do  when  any  thing's 
up — it's  rather  nice  of  them.  Have  you  seen 
Sybil? 

Margaret.     She  was  here  just  now  with  Algy. 

[They  sit  on  settee  c. 

Freddie.  He's  been  hanging  about  her  all 
night,  I  expect  he  does  it  on  purpose — however 
we've  got  a  dance  coming  on  and  I'm  going  to 
take  her  in  to  supper.  She's  just  ripping,  isn't 
she?     Every  one  looks  at  her,  you  know.     That's 


THE   MODERN   WAY  271 

what  makes  me  feel  that  she  can't  care  for  such 
a  duffer  as  I  am.  The  Prince  talked  to  her  for 
five  minutes  as  soon  as  he  arrived. 

Margaret.  [Drarving  a  chiffon  round  her, 
^c.'\  I  wish  it  was  over — I  want  you  to  be  happy 
so  much — you  don't  know 

Freddie.  Dear  Margaret!  There  isn't  any 
one  like  you — I  say  must  you  really  go?  I'm  aw- 
fully nervous 

Margaret.  [Nodding.]  But  you  mustn't  be 
nervous,  Freddie,  dear;  remember  you  are  a  sol- 
dier. 

Freddie.  Oh,  I  don't  mind  gunpowder  a  bit, 
that's  a  trifle  to  this. 

Margaret.     Did  you  do  all  I  told  you.'' 

Freddie.  Hadn't  much  time,  but  I  did  what  I 
could — hunted  everywhere,  and  couldn't  find  'em, 
perhaps  I  threw  them  at  something.  I  bought 
another  lot — at  least  I  got  selections  from  Brown- 
ing— I  thought  selections  would  do — and  I  bought 
all  the  other  chap's  stuff,  but  I  couldn't  manage 
to  get  more  than  twenty  minutes  at  them.  They 
know  an  awful  lot  of  course 

Margaret.  Even  twenty  minutes  would  help 
to  put  you  into  a  right  frame  of  mind. 

Freddie.  If  she  refuses  me  I  shall  go  under. 
She's  such  an  awful  stunner,  I  should  owe  it  to 
her — there  wouldn't  be  any  one  left  to  do  it  for 
if  one  didn't  for  a  girl  like  that 


272  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Margaret.  [Staring  at  him.l  Do  you  care 
so  much?  [3^^^y  g^i  "P* 

Freddie.  [Nodding,]  An  awful  lot,  there 
isn't  any  one  like  her,   and  if  she  doesn't  catch 

on  there  won't  be  anything  left  to  do  except 

\_Shrugs  his  shoulders.l  I  told  Tremayne  so  to- 
day. He  said  I'd  taken  it  badly,  but  he's  never 
been  through  it  himself. 

Margaret.  [Vehemently.]  I  can't  believe 
that  she  doesn't  care  for  you. 

Freddie.  Mrs.  Merlin  said  she  thought  it 
would  be  all  right.  But — I  don't  know  how  it 
is — somehow  I  never  can  get  at  her — really  I 
mean — you  see  every  one  hangs  about  her.     Why 

only  the  other  day  at  Hurlingham 

Enter  Rhoda  and  Gerald  Massington. 

Rhoda.  Oh,  here  he  is.  [To  Freddie.]  We've 
been  looking  for  you  all  round  the  place,  I  must 
have  a  talk  with  you,  Freddie. 

[Gerald  is  speaking  to  Margaret. 

Margaret.  [To  Rhoda.]  Do  you  mind  if  he 
sees  me  off  first?  I'm  going  to  Wimbledon,  to 
a  dance,  with  mother;  she's  waiting  in  the  motor 
outside  and  must  be  furious  by  this  time. 

Rhoda.  Gerald  will  take  you.  [To  Gerald.] 
Take  Margaret  down  to  the  carriage — the  motor 
— or  whatever  it  is — [evidently  agitated.]  Fred- 
die wants  to  talk  to  me. 

[Gerald  goes  towards  her. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  273 

Margaret.  [To  Freddie.]  You'll  telegraph 
in  the  morning  Lancaster  Lodge,  Wimbledon  Com- 
mon— I  shall  be  there  till  twelve  I  daresay — and 
come  to  Pont  Street  in  the  afternoon — my  new 
sitting-room  is  ready. 

Freddie.  [Nodding.^  All  right.  [As  she  is 
about  to  go,  with  a  rush  of  feeling  in  his  voice,'] 
I  say,  let's  be  very  commonplace  and  shake  hands 
this   time 

Rhoda.     Why — I  thought  you  never  did? 

Freddie.  [Explanatory.]  In  case  the  motor 
stands   on  its  head. 

Margaret.  Or  tramples  us  underfoot  on 
Wimbledon  Common. 

Freddie.  Oh,  I  say,  Margaret!  [She  and 
Freddie  clasp  hands  for  a  moment,  rvith  a  note 
of  real  feeling  in  his  voice  he  says]   Good-night. 

Margaret.  Courage,  dear  friend.  [In  a  low 
voice.]      .      .      .      Good-night,    Rhoda. 

[Exeunt  Margaret  and  Gerald. 

Rhoda.      Now  perhaps   we  shall  get  a  minute 
or  two   [as  she  and  Freddie  are  left  alone]. 
Enter  Waiter  or  Servant  followed  by  Benson, 
from  between  supper-room  curtains  on  r. 

[With  a  sign  of  impatience.]      Oh 

Freddie.  Why,  here's  Benson — how  do  you 
do?  [Goes  up  and  shakes  hands  with  him.]  I 
didn't  know  you  were  back  again.  Are  you  with 
Lady  Warringford? 


274  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Benson.  No,  my  Lord,  only  for  the  evening. 
I*m  back  in  England  for  good.  I  hope  her  lady- 
ship is  well.^      [To  JRhoda.]      And  you.  Ma'am? 

Rhoda.  Yes,  thank  you.  I  thought  you  left 
mother  to  go  and  live  in  Paris. 

Benson.  I  hoped  I  was  doing  a  new  thing, 
ma'am;  so  did  her  ladyship. 

Rhoda.     What  was  it.^     I  forget. 

Freddie.  He  started  a  training-school  for 
turning   French  waiters   into   English  butlers. 

Benson.  The  idea  was  an  excellent  one,  but 
the   material   over    there    was    disappointing. 

Freddie.      Too   thin? 

Benson.  Too  finicky,  my  lord,  and  they 
haven't  the  manner.  They  may  do  for  waiters, 
but  they'll  never  make  good  butlers. 

Rhoda.  [Impatiently ,  evidently  anxious  to  be 
alone  with  Freddie.]  And  you've  given  up  the 
idea  ? 

[While  this  talk  is  going  on,  the  Servant 
brings  in  two  small  tables  and  puts 
them  on  l.,  and  one  or  two  more  and 
puts  them  by  palm-trees  in  isolated 
position. 

Benson.  [Evidently  perceiving  Rhoda's  im- 
patience.] Yes,  ma'am.  When  the  season  is 
over,  I  hope  to  get  settled  again — it's  too  late 
now.  I  know  her  ladyship  is  suited,  imfortunately 
for  me 


THE   MODERN   WAY  275 

Rhoda.      [Still  impatient.]      Yes. 

Benson.  Meanwhile,  dinner-parties,  or  balls, 
or  anything  that  wants  managing,  I  shall  be 
happy  to  attend.  [Then  as  Rhoda  turns  away 
to  talk  with  Freddie,  he  says  haughtily  to  the 
Waiter.]  That  will  do.  You  needn't  do  any 
more,  Charles;  we  can't  take  any  more  tables 
from  the  supper-room. 

[Eaiit  Servant. 
[Benson  looks  round,  and  turns  as  if  to  go. 

Freddie.  [With  a  sudden  idea,  going  up  to 
him  and  speaking  confidentially.]  Look  here, 
Benson,  I  shall  come  in  presently  with  a  lady 
for  supper.  You  might  manage  to  give  us  a  table 
in  a  quiet  corner. 

Benson.      [Evidently  understanding.]     It  shall 
be  done,  my  lord.     I'll  put  one  just  here.      [In- 
dicates  L.c.   by   palm.]  [Exit   Benson. 
[Freddie  and  Rhoda  alone. 

Rhoda.  Oh,  do  come  and  sit  down  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  am  so  anxious  about  that  money — it 
must  be  paid  to-night — and  I'm  dreadfully  afraid 
of  Gerald  twigging  there's  something  up. 

Freddie.  I've  got  it  somewhere.  [Business 
with  his  pockets.]  Don't  know  what  I  did  with 
it,  though — oh,  yes,  it's  all  right.  There  it  is. 
[^Handing  her  a  roll  of  notes,  which  she  quickly 
hides  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress.]  Promise  me 
you  won't  do  it  again,  there's  a  good  girl. 


276  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Rhoda.  Ohj  I  can't  promise  that;  you  see, 
people  won't  have  you  if  you  don't  play  fairly 
high  nowadays. 

Freddie.  Yes  they  will.  You're  awfully  nice, 
you  know,  and  there  isn't  any  occasion  for  nice 
girls  to  do  the  things  the  other  ones  must. 

Rhoda.  Do  you  think  I'm  nice?  Brothers  sel- 
dom worry  about  their  sisters. 

Freddie.  Of  course  you're  nice,  and  I  am  very 
fond  of  you.     That's  why 

Rhoda.     You  are  a  dear. 

Freddie.     I  wish  every  one  thought  me  one. 

Rhoda.      Doesn't  Margaret? 

Freddie.  That's  different,  she's  my  friend,  as 
I   told  you  to-day. 

Rhoda.  And  are  you  really  going  to  propose 
to  Sybil   Dolwyn? 

Freddie.      [Nodding.]     I'm  going  to  risk  it. 

Rhoda.  You'll  get  tons  of  money  with  her — 
that's  something. 

Freddie.  I  don't  want  them;  I  only  want  her. 
P'raps    she   won't   have   me. 

Rhoda.  Oh — h — h!  [Contemptuously.]  She'll 
jump  at  you.  Why,  you're  one  of  the  best  partis 
in  London.  I  wish  she  wouldn't — I  don't  care  for 
her. 

Freddie.  If  she  refuses  me  I  shall  be  done 
for. 

Rhoda.     Nonsense,  she  won't;  she  knows  bet- 


THE   MODERN   WAY  277 

ter.  Of  course  we're  not  going  to  let  other  peo- 
ple say  it  if  you  marry  her;  but  she's  an  outsider 
— she  knows  it  herself. 

Freddie.  [Quickly.']  Look  here,  Rhoda,  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  say  that  kind  of  thing.  It  isn't 
— well,  it  isn't  sportsmanlike,  you  know.  You 
see,  you  don't  understand  Sybil.  She  looks  like 
a  goddess,  and — er — has  all  kinds  of — of — qual- 
ities. I  don't  quite  know  what  they  are,  but  she's 
got  them — you  can  see  it  in  her  walk.  And  then, 
you're  my  sister,  and  I  can't  bear  you  to  think 
anything  that  isn't  kind  of  any  one,  especially 
of  any  one  I  care  a  lot  about. 

Rhoda.  Freddie,  what's  come  over  you.^  If 
you  go  on  in  this  way  you'll  become  a  coun- 
try curate,  or  join  the  Salvation  Army,  or  die 
young. 

Freddie.     Perhaps  I  shall. 

Rhoda.  [Evidently  thinking  she  has  gone  too 
far.]  Don't  be  cross.  Of  course,  I  shall  be  very 
nice  if  you  marry  her.  I'll  make  up  to  her  to- 
night if  I  get  a  chance. 

Re-enter  Gerald. 

Gerald.  Margaret's  getting  nicely  slanged  all 
the  way  to  Wimbledon. 

Freddie.  Dear  Margaret,  it  wasn't  her  fault. 
It's  so  difficult  to  make  mothers  understand  some- 
times— even  the  nicest  mothers. 

Rhoda.      They   outgrow  things,  you  know. 


278  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Enter  Mrs.   Calson  alone,  rather  distraite.     She 
hesitates  and  looks  round. 

Freddie.  [Aside  to  Rhoda.]  I'll  go  and  look 
for  her  now^  our  dance  is  the  next  but  one.  [Nerv- 
ously.]    I  wonder  if  there's  any  champagne  about. 

Gerald.  Plenty  in  there.  [Nodding  to  the 
supper-room.^  Take  Mrs.  Calson  in  and  give  her 
a  bumper;  they  like  it  at  that  age,  and  with  that 
figure. 

Rhoda.  You  mustn't  say  that  sort  of  thing 
to  Freddie,  or  he'll  go  for  you  as  he  did  for  me 
just  now. 

Freddie.  Oh,  I  can't.  [Meaning  that  he  can't 
he  worried  with  Mrs.  Calson.]  I  must  go  and 
look  for  her — it's  time — I  might  miss  her.  Look 
here — I'll  take  you  back,  and  Gerald  can  give 
the  old  lady  some  supper. 

[Gives  his  arm  to  Rhoda,  who  looks  back 
triumphantly  to  Gerald. 

Gerald.  I  don't  mind — they  don't  expect  you 
to  talk. 

Rhoda.  [Confidentially  to  Freddie  as  they 
go  off.]      You  really  are  a  lamb,  Freddie,  dear. 

Freddie.  I  wish  she  thought  me  a  lamb — 
but  what  for.f^ 

Rhoda.  Getting  rid  of  Gerald  for  me.  I  do 
think   that   a   husband   who   follows    one   about   a 

ballroom  or  anywhere 

[Exeunt  Rhoda  and  Freddie. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  279 

[Gerald  and  Mrs.  Calson  left  together. 
Gerald.      Do    anjrthing    for    you.^      I    believe 
there's  food  in  there. 

Mrs.  C.  Well,  I  don't  mind.  I  always  like 
to  make  sure  of  things  myself. 

Gerald.  They've  put  some  tables  here,  but  I 
think  we'd  better   go  in. 

Mrs.  C.  Why  yes.  Out  here  we  wouldn't  see 
much  or  get  a  selection,  and  I  always  want  to 
see  what  your  English  ways   are  like. 

Gerald.  There  isn't  much  to  be  said  for  them, 
but  I  daresay  we  shall  get  more  to  eat  in  there 
and  that's  something.  Best  of  taking  in  a  chap- 
erone  is  that  she  appreciates  a  good  supper — so 
do  I. 

[^They  disappear  through  the  curtains  into 

the  supper-room. 
Waiter    enters.      Business.      Benson    fol- 
lows,    they     arrange     table,     evidently 
for  Freddie  l.  c,  business. 
[Couple  pass.    Music  louder  and  softer,  ^c. 
Enter   Duke   and   Jennie    Calson   from   ball- 
room. 
Duke.     It  seems  to  be  comparatively  quiet  out 
here. 

Jennie.  Why  yes,  and  it's  lovely.  [Looking 
round.]  I  do  think  you  English  people  know  how 
to  do  things.  Why,  this  London  is  just  one  great 
show;  but  my!  I  wouldn't  care  to  live  here,  it's 


280  THE   MODERN   WAY 

all  a  sort  of  intoxication — like  the  champagne, 
not  to  be  taken  every  day,  though  it  does  you 
good  to  taste   it  sometimes. 

Duke.  Well — er — suppose  we  have  some  now 
— these  little  tables   are   meant   for   supper — this 

one  will  do 

\_Goes  towards  one  arranged  for  Freddie. 

Jennie.  I*d  like  it,  but  I  wonder  where  moth- 
er's got  to.  She's  the  only  one  here  with  a  red 
feather  on  her  head,  and  the  last  time  I  saw 
her  it  was  waving  along  in  this  direction — that's 
the  best  of  a  red  feather,  you  can  always  see 
it — it's  as  good  as  one  of  your  post  boxes. 

[Clatter  is  heard  and  laughter  as  of  sup- 
per going  on   beyond  curtains. 

Duke.  [D  is  satis  fled.]  Do  you  want  to  go 
to  her.'' 

Jennie.     Not  me,  I'd  like  to  have  supper  here. 
Enter  Benson. 

Benson.     Supper,  your  Grace? 

Duke.  Yes.  .  .  .  You  might  put  it  at 
that  table.  [Pointing  to  table  l.c.  To  Jennie.] 
It  will  be  cooler  than  going  into  a  crowded  room. 

Benson.  [Moving  a  table  r.c.  by  palm.] 
Your  Grace  will  find  this  better — and  that  one 
has  been  taken 

Duke.     Oh — very  well,  it  doesn't  matter. 

Jennie.  I'd  like  to  look  in.  [Looks  in  between 
the  curtains  when  servants  bring  food,  champagne. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  281 

^c,  to  table  r.c]  Mother's  there.  I  see  her — 
right  at  the  far  end.  She's  bent  on  doing  every- 
thing there  is  to  do.  Going  everywhere,  seeing 
everything,  eating  everything.  She'll  be  so  pleased 
and  satisfied  when  she  gets  back  home  she  won't 
know  what  to  do  with  herself.  [Sits  down  to 
supper  at  little  table  facing  Duke,  business  of 
supper.  To  Servant.]  No,  I  don't  want  any- 
thing.      [To    Duke.]       I'm    too    excited    to    be 

hungry 

[Another  couple  come  and  take  table  far- 
ther  back  so  as  to  fill  up  scene. 

Duke.  [Growing  a  little  empresse  in  manner. 1 
Some  champagne,  eh?  [Pours  some  into  her 
glass. 1     And  we'll  have  a  quiet  little  talk,  eh? 

[Servant  hands  something. 

Jennie.  No,  thanks.  [To  Servant.]  Some 
fruit  and  a  few  crackers — biscuits,  you  call 
them  I  believe — or  anything  of  that  sort 
there  is  about,  that  will  do  for  me.  [To  the 
Duke.]  At  home  it  would  be  nearer  our  break- 
fast-time  than    supper-time,   but    I've    been    very 

much  interested  coming  here,  I  can  tell  you 

My!  What  a  time  you  have  in  London — I  like 
seeing  it. 

Duke.  Though  you  don't  want  it — any  more 
than  that — every  day? 

[Nods  his  head  at  the  glass  she  is  raising 
to  her  lips. 


282  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Jennie.     No,  I  don't. 

[Business,   the   Duke    is    evidently   consid- 
ering something. 

Duke.  [Bracing  himself  wp.]  I'm  sorry  you 
don't  like   our  English  life. 

Jennie.  But  I  do,  it's  London  I'm  speaking 
of — I  thought  Lexham  just  lovely.  I'd  live  there 
always  if  it  were  mine. 

Duke.  I  hoped  it  might  be  yours  some  day 
when   you  were  there,   my  dear  young  lady 

Jennie.     Why,  Duke,  what  do  you  mean? 

Duke.  My  nephew  was  very  much  in  love 
with  you 

Jennie.  He's  losing  time  falling  in  love  with 
any  one  while  you  are  round.  [It  is  said  quite 
innocently,  but  the  Duke  loohs  up."]  And  in  spite 
of  being  your  nephew  there  isn't  much  in  that 
funny-shaped    head    of    his,    yet — perhaps    there 

will  be Don't  you  think  that  experience  is 

just  so  much  seed  that  needs  years  to  grow  up 
before  it  becomes  wisdom?  I  don't  think  your 
young  men  over  here  are  half  as  charming  as  the 
older  men. 

Duke.  It  never  struck  me — ^we  older  men  feel 
ourselves  to  be  merely  the  background  of  life. 

Jennie.  I  wish  I  could  take  a  few  over — it's 
our  background  that  wants  filling  in.  [Business.] 
I'd  love  to  show  you  my  home. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  288 

Duke.  {^Grorving  still  more  empresse.]  I 
should  like  to  see  it — upon  my  word  I  would. 

Jennie.  It  will  be  spoilt  soon,  perhaps,  but 
all  the  world  will,  for  they  are  making  cities 
everywhere — and  there  are  always  too  many  peo- 
ple in  them,  and  some  have  too  much  to  eat  and 
some  too  little,  and  a  set  of  ways  of  their  own. 
I  wouldn't  like  to  be  there  when  all  the  West  is 
like  New  York. 

Duke.     Why  don't  you  come  over  here? 

Jennie.  But  I  wouldn't  like  to  live  always  in 
London. 

[Freddie  and  Sybil  enter  from  ball-room 
at  bacJc,  they  come  slowly  down  the 
stage  towards   the  table  laid  for  them 

L.C. 

[Servants  go  in  and  out  attending  to  the 
third  couple,  to  Duke   and  Miss   Cal- 
son  and  to  Freddie  and  Sybil  as  the 
scene  goes  on. 
Duke.     But  you  liked  Lexham. 
Jennie.     I  just  loved  it. 
Duke.      I  mean — could   you  live  there? 

[Tries  to  take  her  hand. 

Jennie.     [Surprised.]     Why 

Duke.  You  said  you  didn't  like  young  men, 
I'm  an  old  fellow,  but — [draws  back  as  Servant 
comes  forward.] 


284  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Freddie.     [Stopping  at  the  table  l.c]     I  say, 
here's  our  table. 

Jennie.      [To  Servant  who  offers  something.] 
No,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  anything  more. 
[Freddie   and   Sybil  are   behind  them. 
[The  third  couple,  having  finished  supper, 
go  bach  to  ball-room. 
Duke.     This  is  a  better  place  for  a  talk. 

[Duke  and  Jennie  get  up  and  sit  down 
on  the  settee  under  the  palms  looking 
R.,    their    backs    towards    Freddie    and 
Sybil. 
Jennie.     I  like  listening  to  that  music  in  the 
distance — somehow  it  makes   one   think   of  home. 
Freddie.      [Who  has   sat   down   with   Sybil   at 
the  other  table  l.c]     I  say,  isn't  this  ripping? 
Sybil.     [Absently. "i     Isn't  it? 

[Waiter  brings  some  soup,  which  she  in- 
stantly begins;  then  as  if  she  suddenly 
remembered   Freddie. 
It's   rather   a   good  entertainment,  eh? 
Freddie.     Ripping. 

Sybil.      [Busy   with   her  soup.]      Ripping 

Freddie.     I  felt  as  if  I  couldn't  live  any  longer 
if  it  didn't  begin. 

Sybil.     If  what  didn't  begin? 
Freddie.     [Nervously.]     Why — why — our  dance 
you    know,    and    supper,    and    everything.      [She 
goes  on  with  her  soup.]     I  think  of  nothing  but 


THE    MODERN   WAY  285 

you  all  day  and  all  night — you're  just  every- 
thing. 

Sybil.  [In  a  caressing  but  absent  tone.}  You 
silly  boy. 

Freddie.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  a  silly 
boy.     It  doesn't  matter,  does  it? 

Sybil.     What  doesn't? 

Freddie.     Being  two  years   younger. 

Sybil.  Not  a  bit — Royalties  are  awfully  gra- 
cious to-night,  aren't  they?  [Servant  offers 
champagne.^      Yes,   please. 

Freddie.  P'raps  they  twigged,  you  know — 
often  think  they  twig  an  awful  lot. 

Sybil.  [To  Servant  who  appears,  hands  a 
dish.l      Yes,  please,  some  sole. 

Freddie.     [To  Waiter.]      No,  thank  you. 

Sybil.     I  always   eat  fish. 

Freddie.  So  do  I,  awfully  good,  you  know. 
But  I  like  to  think  of  'em  swimming  about  in 
the  sea. 

Sybil.     You  funny  boy. 

Freddie.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  a  boy. 
I — I —  Have  some  more  fish?  [The  dish  has 
been  put  down  between  them,  she  nods  and  he 
gives  her  some  more.  Goes  on  nervously.^  You 
know  I've  been  awfully  afraid 

Sybil.  Afraid? — I  am  never  afraid  of  any- 
thing.    [Laughs.l     What's  the  good? 

Freddie.     Oh,  I  say,  don't  laugh.     When  you 


286  THE   MODERN   WAY 

are  like  that  you  know — one  knows  you  can't  be 
thinking  of — of — of  what  I'm  thinking  of. 

Sybil.     What   are  you  thinking  of.'' 

[Looks  up  at  Waiter  who  takes  her  plate. 

Waiter.     Quail } 

[Freddie   maJces  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

Sybil.  Yes^  please.  [Listening.']  I  like  that 
waltz — danced  it  last  time  with  Harry  Gregson. 

Waiter.     [To  Freddie.]     Quail^  my  lord.^* 

Freddie.      [Impatiently.]      No,   no,  that'll   do. 

Sybil.  You  must  have  some  supper.  I  like 
men  who  eat — they  are  so  good-tempered. 

Freddie.     [To  Waiter.]     Oh,  say,  quail — two. 
[Helps  himself  hurriedly. 
[Exit  Waiter.] 

Sybil.     Good,  aren't  they? 

Freddie.     Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking? 

Sybil.      [Still  eating.]      Thinking — when? 

Freddie.  The  other  night  when  I  broke  your 
fan,  do  you  remember? 

Sybil.     Rather.     I  took  it  to  be  mended  to-day. 

Freddie.  I  wanted  to  say  something  then — 
it  was  so  awkward  breaking  it.  I  wanted  you 
to  know  and — [She  holds  out  her  glass  for  cham- 
pagne, he  fills  it]   I  couldn't  say  it. 

Sybil.     Why  couldn't  you? 

Freddie.  I  don't  know.  I  couldn't — I  believe 
it  broke  itself  on  purpose. 

[Takes  a  long  gulp  of  champagne. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  287 

Waiter.     Fruit  salad? 

[Sybil  nods  and  is  helped  to  some. 
[Freddie's  plate  is  taken  away,  he  hasn't 

touched  anything. 
iShe  eats  her  fruit  salad  and  sips  cham- 
pagne at  intervals. 
[He  looks  at  her  admiringly. 
Freddie.     I   told  the  mater  this  morning  that 
you  were  like  a  goddess.     Do  you  know  what  I 
think  sometimes? 
Sybil.     What? 

Freddie.  I  think  that  you  were  once  a  mar- 
ble statue  in  the  British  Museum,  or  that  you  are 
going  to  be  one  or   something. 

Sybil.  It  would  be  awfully  cold  in  winter,  no 
clothes,  you  know — and  nothing  to  eat  or  drink 
— [sips  champagne] — wouldn't  suit  me. 

Freddie.  [Nervously.]  I  never  thought  of 
that. 

Sybil.     What  did  the  mater  say? 
Freddie.     I  like  you  to  call  her  that.     [Pause.] 
It  was   a  bore  breaking  your   fan,   you  know — I 
couldn't  say  it — I  mean  what  I  wanted  to  say. 

Sybil.  Well,  you  can  now.  [Reaches  out  her 
hand  and  helps  herself  to  some  grapes  which  are 
on  a  dish  close  to  her  on  the  table.]  Then  per- 
haps I'll  say  something  to  you. 

Freddie.  [Huskily. 1  Do  you  mean  that? 
[She  nods.]      You  know  what  it  is,   don't  you? 


28a  THE   MODERN   WAY 

^iShe  shaJces  her  head  and  pushes  a  grape  into 
her  mouth.]  I  believe  you  do.  [She  looks  up 
at  him  with  a  little  laugh.]  I'm  awfully  gone  on 
you.  [He  reaches  across  as  if  to  take  her  hand. 
She  pulls  the  left  one  back  and  with  the  right 
one  holds  up  her  little  bunch  of  grapes.]  I've 
been  feeling  as  if  I  should  blow  my  brains  out 
if  it  wasn't  any  good. 

Sybil.     Oh,  but  you  wouldn't,  you  know. 

[Goes  on  eating  grapes. 

Freddie.  But  it's  all  right,  it  is  all  right,  isn't 
it?      [Entreatingly.]      Do  say  it's   all  right. 

Sybil.  [Puzzled.]  Is  what  all  right?  I  don't 
believe  you  know  a  bit  what  you're  talking  about. 

Freddie.  Yes,  I  do.  I've  been  in  love  with 
you  all  the  time,  you  know  that.  Look  here,  do 
you  think  you  could  marry  me?  I'm  an  awful 
rotter,  but  I'll  do  anything  you  like.  You  can't 
think  how  awfully   fond   I   am  of  you. 

Sybil.  You  mustn't  talk  nonsense,  dear  boy. 
You  are  only  a  boy,  you  know. 

Freddie.  I  am  a  man — and  I  love  you — I  love 
you. 

Sybil.     You  have  said  that. 

Freddie.     And  I  want  you  to  marry  me. 

Sybil.      Fear   I   can't. 

Freddie.     Why  not? 

Sybil.  Don't  want  to.  Besides,  I'm  engaged 
to  Algernon  Wake.    The  Prince  was  quite  pleased 


THE   MODERN   WAY  28? 

— ^we  told  him.  No  one  knows — only  you  and 
the  Prince. 

Freddie.  Oh,  I  say.  You  don't  mean  it.  He 
doesn't  care  as  I  do.  He  has  always  been  gone 
on  Margaret. 

Sybil.  He's  gone  on  me  now — {^triumphantly'] 
— and  I'm  gone  on  him — awfully  gone.  But  we 
must  be  friends,  Freddie,  dear,  you  and  I. 

Freddie.  I  can't.  [Rising.]  I  can't  do  it. 
You  don't  mean  it,  Sybil  .^  Look  here,  you  don't 
mean  it,  do  you.^  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I'd  give 
my  life  for  you — I  will. 

Sybil.  I  don't  want  it,  my  dear  boy,  no  use 
for  it. 

Freddie.     Oh,  but  I  must. 

Sybil.  [Getting  up.]  We'd  better  go  back 
— I'll  give  you  another  dance  presently. 

Freddie.  [Gets  up.]  I  can't  stay  any  longer 
— you  made  me  think  you  cared — I  can't  face  it. 

Sybil.  Nonsense.  [With  a  laugh.]  Don't  be 
silly. 

Freddie.     Oh,  I  say 

Enter  from  ball-room  Algernon  Wake,  Rhoda. 

Algy.  [Coming  forward.]  Oh,  you're  there. 
Been  looking  for  you. 

Sybil.  I've  been  having  supper  with  Lord 
Gaysford. 

Rhoda.     Luck  for  him. 

Algy.     Come  and  have  some  more  with  us. 


290  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Rhoda.     [Evidently  remembering  her  talk  rvith 
Freddie.]     Yes,  do. 

Sybil.    Shall  I  ?    I'm  hungry  still.    Lord  Gays- 
ford  doesn't  believe  in  supper. 

Rhoda.     Oh!     But  won't  Freddie  come  too? 
[Turns  to  the  table  at  bach  before  he  can 
answer.     He  doesn't  move. 
Sybil.     [At  other  table.]     This  is  splendid. 

[With   a  little  laugh.     Sits   down  at  sup- 
per-table, with  her  back  to  audience  and 
Freddie.     A   riotous  supper  begins. 
[Freddie    left    alone,    watches   them,    then 
sits  down  half  concealed  from  them  on 
seat    well    to    the   left,   leans   his   head 
forward  on  his  hand,  and  seems  obliv- 
ious of  everything. 
[The  talk  is  taken  up  by  Jennie  and  the 
Duke,  on  the  settee  under  the  palm. 
Jennie.     [To  the  Duke.]     Well,  I  think  you're 
just  wonderful.     What  you  should  see  in  a  wild 
Westerner  girl  like  me  I  can't  think — 'tisn't  even 
as  if  I  were  Anna. 

Duke.    Ah,  why  is  Miss  Anna  so  often  in  your 
thoughts  ? 

Jennie.      You    see,    she    is    my   cousin.      She 
lives  in  New  York,  and  she's  charming,  and  that 

generous 

Duke.     She  can't  be  more  charming  than  you, 
my  fair  Westerner. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  291 

Jennie.  Well,  but  I  thought  when  you  Eng- 
lish married  American  girls,  you  expected  us  to 
come  from  New  York  or  Chicago,  or  some  other 
place  where  they  raise  great  heiresses.  That's 
why   Anna  wouldn't   come   herself. 

Duke.  {^Uneasily.]  My  dear — \^hesitating'\ — 
Jennie — I  am  glad  that  your  money  has  not  been 
made  in  those  terrible  cities.  Englishmen  don't 
make  it  a  fixed  condition  that  American  brides 
come  from  one  of  them. 

Jennie.  [Anxiousli/.]  But  look  here,  I  want 
you  to  understand  I'm  not  rich;  we've  got  miles 
and  miles  of  land,  and  I  don't  know  how  many 
head  of  cattle 

Duke.     Ah ! 

Jennie.  But  there  are  my  four  brothers,  and 
they  all  come  before  me,  they've  wives  and  large 
families. 

Duke.  But  my  dear  young  lady,  I  understood 
— ^that — ^that — um — well — people  don't  live  as  you 
and  your  mother  have  been  doing  if — if 

Jennie.  If  they're  poor?  Why,  we're  not 
poor,  but  we're  not  rich.  Perhaps  we  have  got 
mixed  up — it's  Anna  who  is  the  great  heiress  of 
Calson's  Trust.  She  sent  us  over;  she  was  afraid 
to  come  herself,  lest — well,  lest  she'd  meet  some 
one  like  you,  Duke,  and  she  said  she  didn't  want 
to  take  her  money  out  of  her  own  country,  so  she 
wouldn't  come  over  here  till  she  was  married — 


292  THE   MODERN   WAY 

— come  for  her  honeymoon,  maybe — meanwhile  she 
proposed  that  mother  and  I  should  see  for  her 
what  it  was  like;  she  insisted  on  giving  mother 
five  thousand  pounds,  and  made  her  promise  she'd 
spend  it  all  in  the  four  months  we  were  away — 
go  to  Court  and  do  the  whole  thing — go  back 
and  tell  her  all  about  it — carry  back  the  frocks 
and  all.  I  didn't  want  to  come — I'm  quite  con- 
tent with  my  backwoods;  but  mother  did,  and  she 
wouldn't  come  without  me — I'm  glad  I  did  now. 
Duke.  [Dismayed.]  I  see — I  see — I  am 
afraid  that  things  have  not  been  made  quite  clear, 
and  that  you  were  mistaken  for  the  cautious  Miss 
Anna. 

Jennie.     Why — yes — I  believe  that's  it. 

[Burst   of   laughter   from   supper-table   at 

back. 
[Freddie  starts  as  he  hears  it. 
Duke.      [Coldly.]      I  think  it  is. 
Jennie.     Now  I  feel  sure  of  it — for  the  num- 
ber  of — well    I    must   have   been    pretty   vain   to 
think  it  was  done  just  for  me.     ...     I  wonder 
if  you  asked  me  to  marry  you  because  you  thought 
I   was  Anna.     If  you  did,  you  needn't  worry — 
I'm  not  going  to  hold  you  to  it. 

[Mrs.    Calson    and    Gerald    come    slowly 
through    curtains    on    r.    from   supper- 
room. 
Duke.     [Formally,  and  evidently  with  a  strug- 


THE   MODERN   WAY  293 

gle.]  My  dear — Jennie,  I  am  the  most  fortunate 
of  men — [Rises.^  Here  comes  your  mother.  Per- 
haps we  won't  take  her  into  our  confidence  at  this 
moment — the  position  is  a  little  new — we  might 
discuss  it  a  little  more  fully  first. 

Jennie.  [Looking  at  him  anxiously.]  Sup- 
pose you  come  and  meet  me  to-morrow  at  Miss 
Margaret  Wake's — she's  asked  me  to  go  and  see 
her — we'll  walk  back  from  her  house  and  talk 
it  over — and  till  then  I'll  just  say  nothing  to 
mother  or  any  one  else.  Good-night,  Duke.  \_To 
Mrs.  Calson,  who  has  come  forward.]  Mother, 
I'd  like  to  go  home,  if  you  wouldn't  mind — I'm 
tired — I  want  to  be  with  you — let  us   go. 

[Says  it  tenderly  with  a  little  break  in  her 
voice. 

Mrs.  C.  [To  the  Duke.]  I  see  you  and  Jen- 
nie have  been  having  supper  out  here.  Well, 
she's  missed  something.  That  room  filled  with 
beautiful  Englishwomen  and  distinguished-look- 
ing men,  sitting  at  those  little  tables  thoroughly 
enjoying  themselves  and  the  way  that  supper  was 
served  was  a  sight.     Why 

Duke.     Ah! 

Mrs.  C.  Why,  in  New  York  they  may  be  able 
to  spend  more  money,  but,  compared  with  the  way 
they  do  it  here,  it's  like  the  child  at  school  draw- 
ing on  a  slate  compared  to  an  old  master.  Of 
course,  with  us  farther  West — why  it's  different. 


294  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Gerald.  Not  quite  so  festive  at  this  time  of 
night,  eh? 

Jennie.  [Wearily,  putting  her  hand  on  her 
mother's  arm.]  Let  us  go,  mother — I'm  so  tired. 
[^Turning  to  Gerald,  who  has  been  standing  lis- 
tening to  Mrs.  Calson's  talk  with  an  air  of  deris- 
ion.] Mr.  Massington,  will  you  see  us  to  our 
carriage?  [With  a  rather  distant  manner  to  the 
DuKE.j  We'll  meet  to-morrow  afternoon.  Good- 
night. 

Duke.     Mayn't  I  come 

Jennie.     Not  now. 

Duke.      [Bows   over   her   hand.]      Good-night. 

Mrs.  C.  Good-night,  Duke,  it's  been  a  lovely 
ball,  and  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
getting  us  invited;  the  kindness  of  you  English 
people  is  wonderful. 

Gerald.  [To  Rhoda,  at  other  table — he  has 
just  seen  her.]  I'll  be  back  directly — didn't  know 
you  were  there. 

[Ea:it  Gerald  Massington,  with  Mrs.  Cal- 
soN  and  Jennie.  The  Duke  remains 
near  the  settee  lost  in  thought. 

Rhoda.  [At  the  supper-table.]  But  it  wasn't 
his  own  wife,  you  know.  [Laughter. 

Voice.     Then  it  didn't  matter. 

Sybil.      [Laughing.]      Nothing  matters. 

Duke.  [Hearing,  and  going  a  step  towards 
table.]      Nothing? 


THE   MODERN   WAY  295 

Voice.     Nothing,  that  is  the  best  of  it. 

Enter  Benson.     Business,  with  tables  ^c. 
Benson.      [Going  up  to  Freddie  and  speaking 
in  a  low  voice.']     Let  me  bring  you  a  whisky-and- 
soda,  my  lord. 

[Freddie,  looking  nervously  over  his  shoul- 
der and  seeing  that  the  palms  virtually 
conceal  him  from  the  table  at  which 
Sybil  and  her  friends  are  rioting,  gives 
Benson  a  nod  of  assent,  pulls  himself  to- 
gether and  sits  up,  evidently  deliberat- 
ing. Exit  Benson.  * 
Rhoda.  I  didn't  see  you  were  there,  Duke. 
Duke.     How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Massington? 

[iJe  goes  over  to  the  party  at  the  other 

table  but  does  not  sit  down. 

[Benson     returns     with     the     soda-water, 

which  he  gives  to  Freddie,  who  drinks, 

and  evidently  revives  under  its  influence. 

Freddie.     Do  you  know  the  nearest  telegraph 

office  that  is  open  all  night,  Benson?     I  want  to 

send  a  wire  to  Paris. 

Benson.     Charing  Cross,  my  lord. 
Freddie.     I  must  go.      [Looking  round  uneas- 
ily 

Benson.     Couldn't  I  send  it  for  you,  my  lord? 
You  look  so  tired. 

Freddie.     Er — I   wish  you  would.      \_Feels  in 
his  pocket,  pulls  out  a  letter,  tears  off  blank  half- 


296  THE   MODERN   WAY 

sheet.]     You  must  get  it  written  out  on  a  Conti- 
nental form. 

[Feels  for  pencil,  shakes  his  head. 

Benson.  A  fountain  pen,  if  your  lordship  can 
use  it — [pulling  it  out  of  his  pocket] — I  always 
carry  one. 

Freddie.  Thank  you,  Benson.  [Writes.]  "  Tre- 
mayne,  Hotel  Bristol,  Paris.  No  good,  shall  do 
what  I  said."  [To  Benson.]  It  must  go  to-night, 
he  starts  for  Constantinople  at  nine  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

Benson.  I'll  take  it  myself,  my  lord.  Is  there 
anything  else  I  can  do? 

Freddie.     No,  I  ought  to  write  a  note,  but 

Benson.  I  fear  I  can't  find  paper  here,  my 
lord,  but  I  have  a  postcard  in  my  pocket  if  that's 
any  use.  I  find  it  so  useful  to  have  one  about  me. 
[He  pulls  out  postcard.] 

Freddie.  [Taking  it  with  a  tragic  nod.  Writes.] 
**  No  good.  Shall  do  what  I  said.  Good-bye." 
[Turns  it  over  and  directs.]  **  Mrs.  Merlin,  17b 
Bruton  Street."  [Gives  it  to  Benson.]  Could  you 
see  that  they  go? 

Benson.     I'll  take  them  both  myself,  my  lord. 

[Puts  them  in  pocket. 

Freddie.  Thank  you,  Benson.  [Hesitates.] 
Look  here,  I  should  like  to  give  you  this.  [Gives 
him  hank  note. 

Benson.     [Looking  at  him  oddly,  hut  evidently 


THE    MODERN   WAY  297 

not  suspecting  what  is  in  Freddie's  mind.]  Thank 
you  very  much,  my  lord. 

Freddie.     [Looking  round  nervously.]     Is  there 

any  way  out  of  this  place  except ?  [Nodding 

towards  hall-room  and  supper-room  Exits.] 

Benson.  Through  this  door  and  the  garden, 
and  you'll  be  home  in  two  minutes.  [Unlocks  the 
door  in  conservatory  on  l.]  I'll  come  down  and 
lock  the  garden  door  after  your  lordship. 

[Freddie  goes  a  step  towards  the  door, 
stops  and  takes  a  last  look  at  the  merry 
supper-party,  which  does  not  see  him.  While 
he  stands  thus,  the  Duke  comes  hack  from 
the  group  supping  to  the  seat  heneath  the 
palm,  stands  with  his  hack  to  Freddie, 
whom  he  doesn't  notice, 
Duke.  [With  a  bewildered  startled  air  as  if  he 
can't  helieve  it  says  to  himself] — Accepted! 

Freddie.  [In  a  note  of  despair,  as  he  turns  to 
go  off  hy  the  garden  door.]     Refused! 

[A  hurst  of  laughter  comes  from  the  table 
at  the  hack. 

Curtain. 


ACT    III 

Scene. — Margaret's  sitting-room  in  Pont  Street. 
Small  and  pretty.  Telephone  os  table,  well 
down    stage;    mullion    window    at    back. 
Green  tree  seen  in  back  garden.^ 

Time. — Next    afternoon. 

[Margaret  alone  in  out-door  dress,  hat, 
SfC,  much  agitated;  reads  a  note,  rings 
the  bell. 

Enter  Servant. 

Margaret.    Are  you  quite  sure  that  no  one  else 
called  ? 

Servant.     No  one,  miss. 

Margaret.     And  there  are  no  more  telegrams,^ 

Servant.     No,  miss.  [Ea;it  Servant. 

[Margaret    alone.       Takes    off    hat,    8fC. 

Business.  Re-enter  Servant,  announcing 

Servant.     Mr.  Algernon  Wake. 

Enter   Algy;    looks    rather   foolish    and 
bothered  through  the  interview. 
Margaret.     Oh,  Algy,  I'm  so   glad  you  have 
come. 

Algy.     Why,  what's  the  matter.? 
Margaret.     Have  you  seen  Freddie  Gaysford? 
299 


300  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Algy.      No,  haven't  looked  for  him. 

Margaret.  You  don't  know  anything  about 
him? 

Algy.     Don't  want  to — I   saw  him  last  night. 

Margaret.     [Earnestly.]     Did  he  look  happy? 

Algy.  [Almost  with  a  grin.]  No — o.  He 
didn't. 

Margaret.     Oh ! 

AiGY.   [Still  with  a  grin.]     Sybil  refused  him. 

Margaret.     Oh!  What  will  he  do?   [Agitated.] 

Algy.  P'raps  he'll  go  off  his  chump — he  won't 
have  far  to  go — he  isn't  up  to  much,  you  know. 

Margaret.  Algy,  you  don't  know  Freddie; 
there's  so  much  in  him. 

Algy.     No  one  would  think  it. 

Margaret.  He  doesn't  wear  his  heart  on  his 
sleeve  for  daws  to  peck  at. 

Algy.     Keeps  it  in  his  manly  breast,  eh? 

Margaret.  [Earnestly.]  And  it's  full  of  the 
right  feelings.  He  cares  for  the  right  things,  and 
he  does  them.     There's  no  one  like  Freddie. 

Algy.  [Irritably.]  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  we  don't 
want  another  of  them. 

Margaret.     Algy!     He's  my  friend. 

Algy.  All  right.  Beg  pardon.  We're  cousins 
— relations  are  always  rude. 

Margaret.  [Forgivingly.]  Of  course. 

Algy.  Besides,  I  didn't  come  to  talk  about 
Freddie.  There's  awful  news  about  Uncle  Edward. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  801 

Margaret.  Uncle  Edward!  Oh,  what  is  it? 
I've  heard  nothing. 

Algy.  They  say  he's  going  to  get  married — 
it's  all  over  the  town. 

Margaret.  Going  to  get  married !  You  said 
it  was  something  awful. 

Algy.  It  is,  for  last  night  I  got  engaged  to 
Sybil  Dolwyn. 

Margaret.     You  did! 

Algy.     Of  course  I  did. 

Margaret.  I  hoped  she'd  marry  Freddie  Gays- 
ford. 

Algy.  Well,  she  can't;  she's  going  to  marry 
me. 

Margaret.     How  could  she  refuse  Freddie! 

Algy.     Easily  done. 

Margaret.  Who  is  Uncle  Edward  going  to 
marry .f*     Mrs.  Merlin? 

Algy.  Not  he !  He's  going  to  marry  the  Amer- 
ican girl. 

Margaret.     What,  that  nice  Jennie  Calson? 

Algy.  Well,  you  may  call  her  nice,  and  perhaps 
he  does;  I  don't.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  that  if 
Uncle  Edward  gets  married,  I  may  never  stand  in 
his  shoes,  and  Sybil  mayn't  think  the  chance  worth 
considering. 

Margaret.  Oh,  but  you  shouldn't  count  on 
dead  men's  shoes;  it's  so  unkind. 

Algy.     Sybil  will 


302  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Margaret.     But  doesn't  she  love  you? 

Algy.  Don't  know.  She's  going  to  marry  me 
because  she's  thinks  that  some  day  I  shall  be  a 
duke.  I  was  going  to  marry  her  because  she's 
rolling  in  money — corkscrew,  you  know. 

Margaret.     Oh ! 

Algy.  I  like  her  very  well,  and  she  likes  me 
very  well,  but  I've  stated  the  main  facts. 

Margaret.     I  think  it's  dreadful. 

Algy.  I  don't,  quite  fair,  we  shall  each  get 
what  we  want  and  jog  along  very  well:  nice  girl, 
plenty  of  nerve — sha'n't  be  dull  with  her — never 
quite  certain  what  she'll  do  next — I  like  that  sort 
of  woman,  keeps  one  going. 

Margaret.  Freddie  loved  her.  {Passionateli/.'\ 
He  didn't  care  a  bit  about  her  money 

Algy.  Didn't  want  it — plenty  of  his  own — 
no  uncle  to  worry  him. 

Margaret.  Yes,  but  if  she  hadn't  had  a  penny, 
and  he  hadn't,  it  would  have  been  just  the  same, 
he  loved  her.     Freddie  is  worlds  better  than  you, 

Algy. 

Algy.     Very  well,  I  really  can't  help  it. 

Margaret.  People  think  far  too  much  about 
money  nowadays.  I  wish  there  wasn't  any  in  the 
world. 

Algy.  I  don't,  and  you'd  be  precious  uncom- 
fortable without  it.  But  look  here,  do  talk  sensi- 
bly, there's   a   good  girl;   I   came  to  consult  you 


THE    MODERN   WAY  80$ 

about  Uncle  Edward.     I  don't  want  Sybil  to  chuck 
me. 

Margaret.  If  she  only  accepted  you  for  the 
reason  you  say,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  she 
did. 

Algy.  My  dear  Margaret,  I  think  you're  go- 
ing off  your  chump.  Upon  my  soul,  you're  as  bad 
as  Gaysford. 

Margaret.  [^Imploring  and  evidently  unable 
to  attend  to  what  he  is  saying.']  Algy,  don't  be 
tiresome — but  do  go  and  find  out  if  he's  at  his 
rooms,  or  at  the  barracks,  if  he's  anywhere,  and 
send  me  a  telegram  or  ring  me  up,  and — and — 
I'll  find  out  about  Uncle  Edward  for  you.  I'll 
telephone  to  Miss  Calson,  I  can't  very  well  ask 
her  if  it's  true,  but  I'll  ask  her  to  come  and  see 
me  and  perhaps  she'll  tell  me  then.  And  Oh!  I 
wish  you'd  be  a  real  true  man  and  marry  for  the 
right  reason — the  only  right  reason — because  you 
love  some  one  dearly,  not  because  she  has  money 
— there's  nothing  so  splendid  in  the  world,  Algy 
dear,  as  a  great  unselfish  love — You  are  my  cou- 
sin and 

Algy.  I  say  that'll  do,  I  can  imagine  the  rest. 
I'll  go  and  find  out  about  Gaysford  and  let  you 
know — daresay  he's  only  taking  a  day  off  and  will 
turn  up  at  the  Lavingtons'  to-night  or  somewhere 
else  to-morrow. 

Enter  Servant,  announcing 


804  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Servant.     Mrs.   and  Miss   Calson. 

Algy.  [Aside  to  Margaret.]  Oh,  I  say,  now 
you  can  find  out.  Perhaps  she  won't  tell  you  be- 
fore me 

Margaret.  Of  course  not — and  do  go  and  find 
out  about  Freddie — I'll  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  you  if  you'll  find  Freddie — and  telephone  any- 
thing you  hear. 

Enter  Mrs.  and  Miss  Calson. 

Mrs.  C.  [To  Margaret.]  Miss  Wake,  I 
couldn't  resist  doing  myself  the  great  pleasure  of 
paying  you  a  visit.      [Shakes  hands.} 

Margaret.     So  kind  of  you. 

[She  and  Jennie  ea; change  greetings. 

Jennie.  Mother  said  she  would  bring  me 
and • 

Mrs.  C.     Why,  Mr.  Wake,  how  do  you  do? 

Algy.  How  do?  Been  paying  my  cousin  a 
friendly  visit.  How  are  you.  Miss  Calson?  En- 
joy the  dance  last  night? 

Mrs.  C.  [Before  Jennie  can  reply.]  I  did. 
I  thought  it  was  a  lovely  house  and  the  supper 
just  perfect.  When  I  go  back  to  America  I  shall 
describe  the  way  that  everything  is  done  here 
from  beginning  to  end.  Why,  that  ball  last  night 
was  worth  coming  all  the  way  to  see.  In  New 
York  they  think  they  know  what  they  are  about 
when  they  entertain,  but  I  can  assure  you 

Algy.     That  we   go  one   better,   eh?     Always 


THE   MODERN   WAY  305 

like  doing  that  myself,  so  cheering,     I  hope  Miss 
Calson  enjoyed  it? 

{^Loohs  towards  Jennie. 

Mrs.  C.  [^Begins  before  Jennie  can  answer.'] 
Well  now,  I  don't  believe  she  did  as  much  as  she 
ought.  The  Duke  was  very  kind,  but  Jennie  was 
tired,  and  insisted  on  coming  away  before  it  was 
over.  He  had  taken  great  trouble  to  get  us  in- 
vited and  he  looked  disappointed,  [Margaret  and 
Algy  exchange  loohs.^  for  he  wanted  to  give  us 
a  good  time,  as  he  always  does,  and  he  did  me,  but 
I  do  think  that  here  in  London  young  people  don't 
enjoy  themselves  as  much  as  we  older  ones 

Algy.  Awful  shame,  isn't  it.^  I  mean  awfully 
nice  for  the  older  people,  young  people  come  to 
it  by-and-by,  you  know;  something  to  look  for- 
ward to — [edging  towards  the  door.']  Sorry,  I've 
got  to  go.  Good-bye.  You  shall  hear  from  me 
presently,  Margaret,  suppose  you'll  be  here? 

Margaret.     Yes — [^eagerly]    I   shall — be  here. 

[Exit  Algy. 

Mrs.  C.  Jennie  says  you'd  ask  her  to  come  and 
see  you  one  afternoon,  and  she  wanted  to  come  to- 
day, so  I  thought  I  would  pay  my  respects  to  your 
Mamma  who  very  kindly  invited  us  one  day  when 
we  were  not  able  to  come.  I  am  not  sure  that  Jen- 
nie wanted  me  with  her 

Enter  Servant,  announcing 

Servant.    The  Duke  of  Lexham. 


806  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Enter  the  Duke. 

Margaret.  Uncle  Edward — [greeting  him]  I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you. 

Duke.  How  do  you  do,  my  dear.^  Safely  back 
from  the  Wimbledon  dance .f*  [Turns  to  the  Cal- 
soNS.  Jennie  is  rather  embarrassed  but  tries  not 
to  show  it.  They  shake  hands.]  How  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Calson? 

Mrs.  C.  [To  Duke.]  Why  this  is  quite  an  un- 
expected pleasure  and  gives  me  a  chance  of  thank- 
ing you  again  for  getting  us  that  invitation  for 
last  night.  It's  a  pity  Jennie  was  tired  and  we 
had  to  come  away  rather  soon,  but  I  can  assure 
you  that  I  enjoyed  it  just  immensely. 

Duke.  Ah? — [Ta  Jennie.]  I  hope  you  are 
better?  [Goes  towards  her. 

Jennie.     Yes,  thank  you — I'm  better. 

Mrs.  C.  [As  if  she  saru  that  she  would  not  get 
his  attention,  turns  to  Margaret.]  I  understand 
your  Mamma  was  not  at  home — I  hope  she  is 
quite  well? 

Margaret.  Oh  yes,  thank  you,  she  is  at  the 
Albert  Hall  bazaar.  There's  one  for  her  best 
charity  and  she  has  a  stall. 

Mrs.  C.  Well  now,  isn't  that  lovely?  I  wish 
I  had  gone — what  is  she  selling? 

Margaret.  Wooden  effigies  of  living  celebrities 
— she  has  discovered  a  genius — no  one  else  knows 
anything  about  him. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  S07 

Mrs.  C.  Why!  I'd  give  anything  to  be  there 
— did  you  hear  that,  Jennie?  I'd  love  to  buy 
some;  dead  celebrities  are  so  dull,  but  your  living 
ones  just  now  are  splendid  and  you  have  so  many 
to  choose  from,  it's  just  wonderful. 

Duke.  Eh — why  don't  you  go  and  pick  up  a 
few  before  it  is  too  late 

Mrs.  C.  I  expect  there'd  be  such  a  crowd  I 
wouldn't  find  my  way  to  the  stall  and  when  I  did, 
perhaps  they'd  all  be  snapped  up. 

Jennie.  [Who  while  Mrs.  Calson  has  been 
speaking  has  edged  towards  Margaret,  says  to 
her  aside  in  an  almost  passionate  tone.]  Oh,  if 
you  could  take  her  way — I  want  to  talk  to  him 


Margaret.  [Surprised,  looks  round,  then  as  if 
she  twigged  the  whole  situation.]  Is  your  car- 
riage at  the  door.  Uncle  Edward.'' 

Duke.     Yes,  do  you  want  it? 

[Turns  to  Jennie  again,  she  has  gone  to- 
wards him  after  speaking  to  Margaret. 

Margaret.  I  know  you'll  lend  it  me.  [To 
Mrs.  Calson.]  Why  shouldn't  I  take  you  to  the 
bazaar?  Mother  would  be  delighted,  I  know  the 
way  to  the  stall — I  should  be  back  in  ten  minutes, 
and  I  daresay  Miss  Calson  would  take  care  of 
Uncle  Edward  while  we  went? 

Jennie.  But  our  motor  is  outside,  it  would  get 
there  quicker  still. 


308  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Duke.  Splendid!  {To  Mrs.  Calson.]  You'll 
be  able  to  buy  up  every  celebrity  in  London — and 
they  are  sure  to  be  cheap — celebrities  are  nowa- 
days. 

Jennie.     It's  a  real  chance  for  you,  mother. 

Mrs.  C.  [Rather  surprised  at  finding  herself 
hustled. '\  Well,  now 

Margaret.  [Takes  up  her  hat.^  Let  us  come 
at  once,  where  are  my  gloves?     We'll  fly  there. 

Mrs.  C.  Well — if  you  think  she  would  be 
pleased 

Margaret.     She'll  be  charmed.   {To  the  Duke 

and  Jennie.)     An  revoir.  [Opening  the  door, 

[Exeunt  Margaret  and  Mrs.  Calson. 

[Duke  and  Jennie  are  alone.     He  looks 

at   her  inquiringly,  she  stands   with  her 

back  to  the  mantelpiece  facing  him  for 

a  minute. 

Jennie.  I  hoped  to  see  you — I  expect  you  had 
my  note  asking  you  to  be  here?  [He  nods. 

[Going  a  step  fortvard.]  It  was  splendid  of  Miss 
Wake  to  take  mother  away.     I've  been  think  all 

night — I've    been   thinking   hard [There's    a 

note  almost  of  emotion  in  her  voice.']  I  want  you 
to  understand  that  I  like  you  for  the  way  you 
stood  by  what  you'd  said  last  night — after  you'd 
found  out  I  wasn't  Anna. 

Duke.  My  dear  young  lady — I  stood  by  what 
I  hoped  might  be  my  good  fortune. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  809 

Jennie.  You  must  just  let  me  do  the  talking 
for  one  minute — it  was  splendid  of  you;  but  I 
wouldn't  marry  you  for  all  the  world.  You  mustn't 
think  I'm  not  grateful — most  American  girls  like 
marrying  dukes — I  know  one,  Katherine  Fiffer 
she's  called,  who  says  she  owes  it  to  her  father 
to  come  over  and  invest  his  money  in  a  title  and 
lands  and  all  that,  and  she'll  do  it.  But  there 
aren't  many  of  you  who  would  stand  by  a  sim- 
ple Western  girl  when  they  found  out  she  didn't 
know  for  certain  that  she'd  a  thousand  dollars 
of  her  own;  and  that  you  were  one  of  them,  and 
willing  to  do  it  just  for  the  sake  of  your 
word 

Duke.  For  the  sake  of  a  most  charming 
woman 

Jennie.  [As  if  she  hadn't  heard.]  I'll  never 
forget.  Since  I  came  to  England  I've  had  nine- 
teen offers  of  marriage  of  one  sort  or  another,  but 
now  I  feel  that  not  one  of  them  has  been  made  to 
me,  they've  all  been  made  to  Anna's  millions  with 
which  I  got  mixed  up.  It's  a  good  lesson  for  one's 
vanity 

Duke.  My  dear — Jennie — if  I  may  call  you 
that — let  me  speak — I  did  think  you  were  an 
heiress,  I  own  up.  I  told  my  nephew  Algernon, 
that  I  should  be  delighted  if  you  married  him. 
He  hasn't  any  brains,  and  he  hasn't  any  money, 
and  he'll  never  do  a  day's  work,  and  I  thought 


310  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Jennie.     He  might  marry  me?     It  was  kind. 

Duke.     I  ought  to  be  horsewhipped. 

Jennie.  [Jw  a  quick  half -passionate,  half-pa- 
thetic voice  J]  And  that  was  why  you  asked  us  to 
Lexham,  I  expect.^  Why  it  was  like  "  '  Will  you 
walk   into   my   parlour.^'    said   the    spider    to    the 

fly." 

Duke.  {^Taking  no  notice.^  And  when  you 
came — or  rather,  when  you  had  been  there  a  day 
or  two,  I  thought  you  the  most  charming  girl  I 
had  even  seen  in  my  life,  so  fresh  and  natural,  and 
unspoilt,  that  upon  my  life,  meeting  you  after  the 
London  women  was  like  walking  out  of  a  crowded 
ball-room  down  a  country  lane  on  an  early  spring 
morning.  But  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  think  of 
you  myself,  I've  had  my  day,  I'm  fifty-seven 
years  old. 

Jennie.  YStill  pathetic."]  It's  just  a  lovely  age 
— it's  what  makes  you  so  interesting.  I've  thought 
you  like  no  one  else  here,  and  haven't  cared  a  bit 
about  who  you  were  or  anything  but  just  you,  and 
those  fifty-seven  years  you've  lived — I  knew  how 
picturesque  they  must  have  been 

Duke.  Jennie!  [^Goes  on  explaining.']  I  don't 
pretend  that  I  haven't  thought  of  the — the  fortune 
that  I  understood  was  yours.  Er — er — I  thought 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  Algernon  to  have 
it 

Jennie.     It  would  be  just  the  worst — ^he  ought 


THE   MODERN   WAY  811 

to  be  made  to  work — it  would  make  a  man  of  him 
— but  they  don't  know  how  to  do  it  over  here. 

Duke. — And  Lexham — what  with  the  reduction 
of  rents  and  life  charges  and  all  the  thousand  and 
one  things  that  are  a  nightmare  to  property-own- 
ers— is  shrinking  and  falling  to  bits  for  want  of 
— of — of  stoking — I  think  that  is  what  you  call 
it 

Jennie.  [With  a  little  smile.']  For  want  of  an 
heiress  to  prop  it  up. 

Duke.  Well,  for  want  of  money  from  some- 
where, to  put  it  plainly. 

Jennie.  I  see,  I  see — I  was  just  the  chance 
for  Lexham 

Duke.  Yes,  I  confess  I  wanted  your  money 
for  the  place — but  I  wanted  you  for  myself,  I'm 
more  in  love  than  I  have  been  since  I  was  twenty- 
five — when  I  married — and  had  ten  good  years — 
[with  feeling  in  his  voice]  I've  never  seen  any 
woman  I  could  put  in  her  place  till  I  met  you,  she 
would  understand  your  being  in  it 

Jennie.  If  I  were  Anna  I  believe  I  would  be 
there 

Duke.  [Going  forward.]  Be  there,  without  be- 
ing Anna,  if  you  can  bring  yourself  to  take  me — 
if  you  care 

Jennie.  Why,  yes,  I  could  care,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  marry  you,  it  would  just  be  the  worst 
mistake  that  either  of  us  could  make,  and  presently 


312  THE    MODERN   WAY 

we'd  look  at  each  other  and  we'd  know  it  better 
than  any  one  in  the  world.  I  couldn't  live  the 
life  that  all  of  you  live  over  here. 

Duke.  But  you  said  you  liked  the  life  at  Lex- 
ham. 

Jennie.  I  think  it's  beautiful,  it's  a  living  pic- 
ture, but  it  isn't  one  that  I  want  to  be  in.  I've 
liked  seeing  it  all,  I'll  like  remembering  it,  just 
as  I'll  like  remembering  all  I've  done  over  here, 
living  at  Claridge's,  wearing  clothes  such  as  I 
never  had  before,  going  to  King  Edward's  Court, 
and  your  Universities  and  Ascot,  and  places  like 
last  night — why  it's  been  a  dream,  but  I  couldn't 
take  it  as  my  life — I  couldn't  take  even  Lexham 
as  that. 

Duke.     Why  not? 

Jennie.  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  couldn't  live  in 
a  house  with  as  many  rooms,  with  all  those  beau- 
tiful things  that  have  got  to  be  just  so,  and  just 
there;  or  with  all  that  crowd  of  servants  about.  I 
couldn't  wear  my  best  clothes  all  day  long;  why 
they'd  worry  me,  and  as  for  sitting  down  to  all 
those  long  meals  every  day  with  white  table-cloths 
and  servants  dressed  up  waiting  on  me,  or  doing 
all  the  things  that  people  do  in  that  position — 
I'm  not  made  that  way.  I'd  feel  as  if  I  were  in 
prison,  or  play-acting  a  piece  that  never  came  to 
an  end,  or  in  a  wax-work — I  wouldn't  feel  alive, 
I  wouldn't  feel  able  to  breathe. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  313 

Duke.  But  what  sort  of  life  do  you  live,  my 
dear? 

Jennie.  Why,  we  just  live  on  the  land,  and 
our  house  is  a  long  low  one,  and  the  room  we  are 
in  mostly  is  a  large  one  with  high  rafters  and  a 
stone  floor  and  sheep-skin  mats  about,  and  a  door 
that  opens  on  to  the  world  that  stretches  miles  and 
miles  away.  We  never  use  the  best  parlour  unless 
strangers  come  or  there's  something  out  of  the 
common  going  on.  And  no  one  comes  over  our 
threshold  of  the  sort  you  see  here  in  London. 

Duke.     They'll  come 

Jennie.  Yes,  we  know  that.  The  cities  are 
creeping  nearer  but  they're  not  there  yet.  The 
planters  and  growers  and  cattle-ranchers  know 
that  the  old  life  is  coming  to  an  end,  but  I  wouldn't 
give  up  a  single  day  of  it — I  couldn't — {^reaching 
out  her  hands.]  ...  I  believe  I  love  you  a 
little.  [He  goes  a  step  forward  but  she  keeps 
him  hack] — but  it's  only  as  one  loves  in  a  dream 
or  as  one  might  love  some  one  on  Sundays.  The 
man  I  live  my  life  with  must  be  for  the  waking 
time  and  the  week-days.  He  must  wear  rough 
clothes  and  thick  boots,  and  work  with  his  hands 
and  be  ready  with  his  fists,  and  love  the  open  bet- 
ter than  indoors,  and  know  the  sky  and  the  ground 
and  every  sign  of  the  weather,  and  every  beast  he 
owns  and  its  name — and  everything  about  it — 
[struggles  not   to  break  down].     I'm  going  back 


S14  THE    MODERN   WAY 

to  the  life  I  want  to  live,  but  I'll  remember  you 

— I'll  just  remember  you  all  my  life 

Duke.     Come  to  me  for  all  my  life 


Jennie.     No.  I  couldn't.     And  you'll  get  to  see 

how  wise  I  am 

Duke.     Wise,  my  dear?  I  love  you 


Jennie.  No,  you're  just  surprised — you're 
taken  with  the  New  World  view — but  you  wouldn't 
like  it  always 

Duke.     [Reflectively.']     Perhaps 


Jennie.  [As  if  it  were  all  painful.]  Why  no, 
not  perhaps — but  certain — and  now  I'd  like  to  end 
all  this — we're  friends — and  we'll  always  be 
friends — at  heart 

Duke.  You've  taught  me  that  money  isn't  every- 
thing. [Takes  her  hands  and  kisses  them.]  Some 
day  I  shall  come  out  to  the  West  and  see  you — 
if  you'll  let  me. 

Jennie.  Why  yes,  I'll  let  you  do  that.  [With 
a  pathetic  laugh.]  You'll  like  it,  but  you'll  feel 
as  much  out  of  it  as  I  would  riding  my  rough  pony 
down  Rotten  Row,  though  I'd  like  that — [Sud- 
denly, as  if  unable  to  bear  it  longer]  I  want  to  go 
home,  will  you  tell  Miss  Wake?  Oh,  but  she's 
gone  off  with  Mother  in  the  motor. 

Duke.     Jennie,  are  you  sure 

Jennie.  Yes,  I'm  sure  and  I  want  to  go  back 
to  the  hotel  right  away.  [Turns  as  if  to  go.] 

Duke.     Let  me  drive  you. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  315 

Enter  Servant  with  a  telegram  on  a  tray,  looks 
round,  evidently  surprised  not  to  see  Margaret. 
Jennie.     Miss  Wake  will  be  here  directly. 

[Exit    Servant. 

Oh!     Here  she  is 

Re-enter   Margaret. 
Margaret.      [To  Jennie.]      Mrs.   Calson   has 
sent  back  the  motor  for  you^  but  I  hope  you  won't 

go  just  yet 

Jennie.  Why,  yes,  I  must,  the  Duke  was  going 
to  drive  me,  but  now  we  can  go  along  separately. 
Let  me  come  and  see  you  another  day.  [To  the 
Duke.]  And  I  would  rather  you  drove  me  some 
other  day  if  you  don't  mind.  Good-bye  [to  Mar- 
garet.] 

Duke.  I'll  see  you  into  the  motor  if  I  may. 
[To  Margaret  as  he  is  about  to  go  with  Jennie] 

I'll  come  back  in  a  minute 

[Exit  Duke   with  Jennie,  re-enter  Serv- 
ant,    hands    Margaret    the    telegram, 
and  exit.  She  opens  it,  gives  a  little  cry. 
Margaret.     [Reads  aloud  with  a  puzzled  azr.] 
"  Am    coming    to    you    this    morning,    Freddie — 
[looks    at    envelope. '\      Redirected    at    Lancaster 
Lodge,     sent     first     by     mistake     to     Lansdowne 
Lodge."     I  don't  understand.      [Agitated."] 
Re-enter  the  Duke. 
Uncle    Edward,   do    you    understand    this    tele- 
gram.^    It's   from  Freddie  Gaysford,   I  expected 


316  THE   MODERN   WAY 

a  telegram  from  him  this  morning  at  Wimble- 
don, but  it  didn't  come.  He  was  to  have  come 
here  this  afternoon,  but  he  hasn't 

Duke.  ^Looking  at  telegram.]  Evidently  for- 
got the  address. 

Margaret.  And  he's  probably  wandering 
about  Wimbledon  Common  trying  to  find  me,  oh! 
Where  is  he} 

Duke.  He'll  turn  up,  my  dear,  when  he's 
tired  of  trying  to  find  you  there — I  daresay  he'll 

be  here  directly 

Re-enter   Servant,   mith   another  telegram. 

Perhaps  this  is  from  him. 

Margaret.  [Tearing  it  open.]  *'  Just  arrived 
at  Folkestone,  coming  to  you  immediately,  Tre- 
mayne,"  Mr.  Tremayne!  Why  he  started  for 
Constantinople  last  night.    [Pause.]    Oh!   do   you 

think [agitated] — can  it  be   about   Freddie? 

I  know  he  is  miserable,  for  Sybil  Dolwyn  refused 
him  last  night. 

Duke.     It's  lucky  for  him  that  she  did. 

Margaret.     She  accepted  Algy 

Duke.  I  know — I  thought  she  would  do  for 
him — but  norv — [seriousli/^  I'm  sorry  for  it,  and 
Lexham  will  be  sorry  by-and-by,  she's  not  the 
right  sort. 

Margaret.  Algy  heard  that  you  were  going 
to  be  married.  Uncle  Edward — ^to  Jennie  Calson. 

Duke.     I  was  last  night. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  817 

Margaret.     Oh!  I'm  glad 

Duke.  But  she  has  thrown  me  over — ^just 
now. 

Margaret.     Thrown  you  over — ^Why? 

Duke.  Because  I'm  not  good  enough  for  her, 
she  wants  a  man  who  wears  thick  boots  and  rough 
clothes  and  a  wideawake.  She  thinks  that  I  am 
a  loafer  with  too  many  luxuries — she's  wrong; 
my  class,  if  it  does  its  duty,  often  works  much 
harder  than — than  the  one  she  admires.  But  she's 
a  fine  creature.  I  would  rather  not  talk  about  it, 
though  she's  given  me  more  to  think  about  than 
I've   had   for  twenty-five  years. 

Margaret.  [Putting  her  hand  on  his  arm.] 
It's  always  good  to  love  the  best — ^be  glad  you 
have  done  that,  dear  Uncle  Edward 
[Pause.]  I  wish  you  would  talk  about  Freddie,  I 
am  so  anxious  about  him.  [Suddenly  remember- 
ing.] He  asked  me  to  shake  hands  last  night — 
it  frightens  me,  he  meant — Oh!  why  didn't  I 
understand  ? — [Emotion.] 

Duke.  [Looking  round  sharply,  but  speaking 
with  tenderness.]  He's  a  nice  lad — are  you  fond 
of  him,  my  dear? 

Margaret.    [Half    turning    away.]      He's    my 

friend — of  course  I  like  him 

Enter  Servant  with  a  note  on  tray,  which 
he  hands  to  Margaret. 

[Exit  Servant. 


318  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Duke.     P'raps  that's  from  him. 

Margaret.  Oh  no! — ^may  I  open  it?  It's 
from  Mrs.  Merlin.  [Reads.]  "I  am  so  anx- 
ious about  dear  Freddy  Gaysford,  do  you  know 
anything  about  him?  [Agitated,]  Oh! — [Rings 
the  bell.] 

Enter  Servant. 
[Margaret    goes    to    writing-table    on    l.,    and 
writes.] 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  am  miserable."  [To  Serv- 
ant.] Send  this  note  at  once  to  Mrs.  Merlin 
by  hand.  [Exit  Servant.]  [To  Duke.]  Oh, 
do  go  to  Grosvenor  Place  and  see  if  Lady  Gays- 
ford  knows  anything — and  come  back  and  tell  me 
— I  would  go  myself  but  I  can't — [agitated] — if 
she  only  had  a  telephone — but  she  won't  have  one 
in  the  house. 

Duke.  Quite  right — a  telephone  is  as  bad  as 
a  motor — I'll  go  this  minute.  [TaJces  both  her 
hands;  kisses  her  forehead.  Is  going,  then  turns 
back.]  Don't  tell  Algy  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
Jennie — I  want  to  see  what  happens — don't  tell 
him  yet 

Margaret.  I  won't.  Come  back  and  tell  me 
about  Freddie — I  am  so  unhappy — and  you  are 
such    an   old   dear — I   love   you.    Uncle    Edward. 

[Eait  Duke. 
[Margaret  alone,  takes  off  her  hat,  throws 
herself  on  a  chair. 


THE    MODERN   WAY  319 

Margaret.  \^E  jo  claiming  passionately^.  Oh, 
Freddie,  Freddie,  if  you  would  only  come!  [The 
telephone  bell  rings.  She  flies  to  it.  Business  at 
the  telephone.]  Yes,  it's  I,  Margaret.  Oh,  Algy! 
He's  not  been  there  all  day?  I  know  that,  he's 
been  to  Wimbledon,  but  I  thought — he  ought  to 
have  come  back  before  this — [listens  to  telephone] 
— Oh,  yes,  I  hope  he'll  turn  up — thank  you  for 
going  .  .  .  Oh!  yes.  .  .  .  What  about 
Sybil.?     Oh!     They've   switched  it  off! 

[Comes    back    centre    of   stage,    sits   down 
and  evidently  thinks  anxiously. 
Enter  Servant,  announcing 

Servant.     Lord  Gaysford. 

Margaret.    [Starting  to  her  feet.]      Oh! 
Enter  Freddie. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Oh,  Freddie,  Freddie,  I  am  so  glad  you've  come. 
Oh,  Freddie  dear! 

Freddie.  [Gravely,  rvith  a  long  sigh  of  relief.] 
It  is  good  to  see  you. 

Margaret.     Oh,  dear  Freddie! 

Freddie.     Dear  Margaret! 

Margaret.  Your  telegram  to  Wimbledon  went 
to  the  wrong  address — I  only  had  it  half  an  hour 
ago — sent  back 

Freddie.  /  went  to  the  wrong  address — 
walked  about  the  Common  for  hours,  then  I  found 
the  right  place — you  had  just  gone. 


320  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Margaret.     And  then? 

Freddie.  Then  I  walked  about  the  Common 
again  to  find  a  seclTided  portion  to  which — I 
could  return — I'm  going  back  there. 

Margaret.    [Anxiously.l    Oh!  going  back? 

Freddie.  [He  nods.^  It's  so  quiet  there.  But 
I  had  to  see  you  first. 

Margaret.     I   knew  you  would   come. 

Freddie.  Rossetti  and  Browning  didn't  do 
much  for  me. 

Margaret.     Tell  me  what  she  said. 

Freddie.     She's  engaged  to  Wake. 

Margaret.  [With  a  sound  of  sympathy.']  I 
know.  Algy  has  been  here.  Uncle  Edward  told 
him  he  ought  to  marry  some  one  with  money. 

Freddie.  She  has  tons — from  the  corkscrew. 
Still  I  could  give  her  some  things  that  he  can't. 

Margaret.     And  you  are  so  different Oh, 

I  can't  think  how  she  could  refuse  you. 

Freddie.  That's  only  because  you  like  me, 
dear.  [Pause, 

Margaret.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

Freddie.  This.  [Stretches  open  his  side  poc- 
ket, lifts  a  pistol  a  little  way  out  of  it,  and  drops 
it  bach.]  I  bought  it  in  Wigmore  Street  this 
morning. 

Margaret.     Freddie!     You  won't,  really? 

Freddie.     There's  nothing  else.     If  there  was 


THE    MODERN   WAY  321 

a  war  I  should  go  to  it;  but  there  isn't — there 
won't  be  one  in  spite  of  the  papers — there's  only 
this. 

Margaret.     Oh  no,  no,  you  mustn't! 

Freddie.     I've  written  to  Mrs.   Merlin. 

Margaret.  I  know,  I  had  a  letter  from  her 
just  now,  she's  miserable. 

Freddie.  She's  a  dear  woman;  and  I  wired 
to  Tremayne. 

Margaret.     I  know!     He's  on  his  way  back. 

Freddie.     How  splendid  of  him! 

Margaret.     But  your  mother? 

Freddie.  Dear  Mum!  I  must  write  to  her — 
it's  better  that  she  should  have  the  shock,  it  will 
at  least  save  her  the  miserable  anticipation. 

Margaret.  But  it's  too  dreadful.  {^Reaches 
out  her  hands  in  despair.^  Oh,  what  are  you 
looking  at.f* 

Freddie.  Only  at  the  tree  in  the  back  garden. 
I  wonder  how  it  got  there.     What  tree  is  it.? 

Margaret.  [Impatiently.']  I  don't  know — I 
don't  care — we  found  it  there  when  we  took  the 
house.  [Crosses  stage.]  Freddie,  you're  not  going 
back  to  Wimbledon.? 

Freddie.  Not  for  an  hour  or  two — it  ought 
to  be  done  in  the  dark,  you  know.  There's  no 
place  nearer — the  parks  are  overrun. 

Margaret.     But  you  couldn't  do  it  in  the  sub- 


S22  THE    MODERN   WAY 

urbs  [shudders'^  .  .  .  And  it  won't  be  dark 
for  a  long  time.  [They  hold  each  other* s  hands 
and  sit  side  by  side.  Pause.]^  I  can  feel  the  im- 
mensities near  us.  \_Pause.]  [Very  gravely.} 
Suppose  we  have  some  tea. 

Freddie.      I   should  like  it.  [She  rings. 

Margaret.  You  must  give  me  that  horrid 
pistol. 

Freddie.     No     .     .     .     [Firmly.]     I  can't. 

Margaret.  Only  to  hide  in  the  coal-scuttle 
while  we  are  together,  J  am  so  afraid  of  it.  You 
don't  want  to  kill  me,  even  by  accident,  do  you, 
Freddie.? 

Freddie.  No,  dear,  not  for  the  world.  Let 
me  put  it  there.  ^ 

[She   lifts   up   the   lid   of   the   brass   coal- 
scuttle and  he  puts  it   carefully  inside. 

Margaret.  [With  a  sigh  of  relief.]  It  can't 
go  off  by  itself? 

Freddie.     No — not  in  the  coal-scuttle. 
Enter  Servant  with  tea. 
[They  sit  on  either  side  of  the  tea-table, 
business    of   making   it,   ^c. 

Freddie.  It  is  good  to  be  here.  It's  an  aw- 
fully nice  room. 

Margaret.    And  this  is  its  first  week.     . 
Two  lumps? 

Freddie.  Only  one.  .  .  .  You'll  see  all 
your  own  friends  here? 


THE    MODERN   WAY  323 

Margaret.  I  shall  never  have  one  like  you.  .  . 
Let  me  see,  you  do  like  cream.'* 

Freddie.  Not  to  much.  [Takes  the  cup.  She 
offers  him  bread  and  butter;  he  shakes  his  head. 
He  looks  round. ^  I  shall  never  see  it  again, 
Margaret. 

Margaret.  We  might  have  had  such  happy 
hours  here. 

Freddie.     Who  did  those  pictures? 

Margaret.  I  forget  his  name — one  of  Whist- 
ler's disciples. 

Freddie.     He  was  an  awful  duffer. 

Margaret.     What,  Whistler? 

Freddie.  No,  his  disciple.  And  the  books, 
what  are  they?  [Nodding  towards  the  little  book- 
shelf.] 

Margaret.  Modern  poets.  I  collect  them, 
you  know. 

Freddie.  Lucky  chaps — but  I  wonder  you 
don't   die — I    found   the    big   ones    hard    enough. 

[Pause. 

Margaret.  Freddie,  don't  you  think  it's 
wicked  to  put  an  end  to  a  great  intellect — to  a 
great   career,   perhaps? 

Freddie.     What  do  you  mean? 

Margaret.  You  might  win  some  battle  for 
your  country — you  might  be  Commander-in- 
Chief. 

Freddie.     They  don't  want  one  now.  And  they 


S24  THE   MODERN   WAY 

are  always  wanting  to  reduce  the  army — I  am 
helping — it's  better  than  being  disbanded — they 
only  care  for  Territorials  now. 

Margaret.      But   it   is    wonderful   how    events 
seem  to  march  out  to  meet  each  other. 
Perhaps   the  papers   will   manage   to   bring  on   a 
war.     Couldn't  you  wait  and  see? 

Freddie.  No,  dear — you  can  never  trust  them. 
l^LooJcing  at  her.]  .  .  .  Your  eyes  are  very 
blue,  Margaret.  I  thought  so  in  the  Park — do 
you  remember  how  you  and  I  went  out  to  meet 
each  other  last  Wednesday?  [She  nods.]  It  was 
that  day  you  talked  of  some  artist  no  one  had 
heard  of. 

Margaret.  [Nods.'\  I  told  you  of  the  picture 
in  his  studio  at  Hampstead,  and  you  said  Hamp- 
stead  was  the  end  of  the  world. 

Freddie.  I  wish  we  had  gone.  .  .  .  We 
never  shall  now.  .  .  .  Primrose  Hill  is 
somewhere  near  it,  Symonds  told  me  he  went 
there  once.  ...  I  can't  believe  it's  all 
over.  [Gets  up. 

Margaret.     No,  no — it  mustn't  be  over. 

Freddie.     It's  time  to  go. 

Margaret.     Not  yet,  not  yet. 

Freddie.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  she  won't 
care 

Margaret.     Oh,  she  will — it'll  kill  her. 

Freddie.     I  don't  believe  it  will  even  give  her 


THE  MODERN  WAY       8^5 

neuralgia.     She's  not  like  you — if  she  had  been 
like  you,  Margaret \^Turns  away. 

Margaret.      You  mustn't — mustn't  go. 

Freddie.     It's  time. 

Margaret.  [^Passionately.']  You  mustn't  go, 
it  would  be  wicked,  cruel,  cowardly — don't  do  it 
— don't  do  it. 

Freddie.  [Surprised J]  I  should  look  such  a 
fool  if  I  didn't — now;  think  of  that,  dear.  Tre- 
mayne  has  chucked  Constantinople,  and  Mrs. 
Merlin  would  never  believe  me  again — and  I 
bought  it  on  purpose — [nodding  at  scuttle'].  I 
should  have  done  it  last  night  if  I'd  had  one  by 
me. 

Margaret.  Oh!  What  does  it  all  matter? 
You  mustn't  throw  away  your  beautiful  life. 

[Puts  out   her  hands  entreatingly. 

Freddie.  No  one  else  thinks  it  beautiful — 
only  you.  [Takes  her  hands,  and  looking  into 
her  eyes  a  change  seems  to  come  over  him."] 
There's  no  one  like  you,  Margaret. 

Margaret.     Yes — there's   Sybil. 

Freddie.  She's  heartless,  and  the  strange  thing 
is  that  to-day,  when  I  ought  to  feel  so  much,  it 
seems  as  if  a  wave  had  swept  over  me — it's  Ros- 
setti  perhaps — it  has  carried  all  that  I  felt  for 
her  away — that  makes  it  so  hard. 

Margaret.  Oh,  but  you  loved  her  so  only  yes- 
terday— ^you  said  she  was  like  a  goddess 


826  THE   MODERN   WAY 

Freddie.  A  goddess  has  no  heart,  go  and  look 
at  them  in  the  British  Museum — they  are  made  of 
stone. 

Margaret.     — or  an  Empress. 

Freddie.     She  is  a  pig. 

Margaret.     A  pig! 

Freddie.  She  ate  too  much  supper.  She  ate 
two  suppers — one  after  the  other. 

Margaret.  Women  often  do — you  mustn't 
judge  her  so  harshly,  dear — I  can't  believe  she 
doesn't  care. 

Freddie.  You  can't  because — there's  no  one 
like  you  in  the  world.  I  never  cared  for  her  as 
I  do  for  you — why  didn't  you  love  me,  Margaret 
— Margaret,  why  didn't  you  love  me?  I  should 
never  have  looked  at  her  then.     [Telephone  bell. 

Margaret.  You  never  wanted  me  to — in  that 
way 

Freddie.  I  always  did.  [Sadly.]  I  never 
really  loved  any  one  but  you — if  you  had  only 
cared     for     me — Margaret — my     Margaret — ^why 

didn't  you  care [Telephone  bell  again.Ji      It 

was  because  I  thought  you  didn't — oh!  damn  that 
bell. 

Margaret.  I  did — I  do.  Oh,  that  bell! 
[Bell  rings  furiously  as  they  are  in  the  act  of 
embracing,  and  with  a  desperate  exclamation 
Margaret  flies  to  it.]  [At  the  telephone.] 
Yes.      .      .      .      [To   Freddie.]     Oh,   it's   Algy. 


THE   MODERN   WAY  327 

[To  telephone.]  Yes,  it's  I,  Margaret.  Freddie 
is  here.  .  .  .  What.  .  .  .  Oh,  how 
cruel!  Sybil  says  she  was  only  joking?  . 
But  she  was  not,  she  refused  him!  He  was 
broken-hearted — till  just  now.  .  .  .  Yes  . 
What !  She's  not—  Wait  .  .  .  I'll  ask  him, 
he's  here.  Wait.  [Turning  to  Freddie.]  Sybil 
says  she's  engaged  to  you;  that  she  accepted  you 
last  night  at  supper.  And  she  was  only  laugh- 
ing at  Algy.  [With  feeling  in  her  voice,  into 
telephone.]  Ring  me  up  again  in  five  minutes 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  Freddie  says.  [Gets  up 
and  goes  to  Freddie.]  Freddie  dear,  you  are 
free,  don't  think  that  I  will  hold  you.  You  must 
go  to  her — you  must  go  to  her.  You  are  free — 
your   are   free 

Freddie.     But  Margaret!     Margaret — it's  you 

I  love — you 

Enter   Lady   Gaysford,   followed   by    Tremaynb 
and  Mrs.  Merlin,  all  agitated. 

Lady  G.  Oh,  Freddie,  Freddie,  we've  been 
looking  for  you  everywhere;  I  was  afraid  that 

Freddie.     I've  been  having  tea  with  Margaret. 

Tremayne.  But,  look  here,  what  does  this 
mean.?  They  woke  me  up  with  your  confounded 
wire  at  seven  this  morning — only  went  to  bed  at 
six — and  instead  of  going  to  Constantinople,  I 
rushed  back,  because  I  thought  you  had  put  a  pis- 
tol to  your  head. 


S28  THE    MODERN   WAY 

Margaret.  [Vehemently. li  He  was  going  to 
— he  was,  indeed;  it's  in  the  coal-scuttle. 

Lady    G.      The   coal-scuttle 

Tremayne.     His  head,  or  the  pistol? 

[Going   towards   coal-scuttle.    Business. 

Freddie.  I  carried  it  about  all  day,  but  I  was 
so  bored  with  it.     Mother,  I  was  an  ass! 

[Taking   her  hands. 

Lady  G.     Oh  no,  dear,  I  hope  not. 

Freddie.  But  for  Margaret  I  should  have 
been. 

Mrs.  M.  [Putting  her  hand  on  Margaret's 
arm.]     I  knew  this  dear  girl  would  save  him. 

Freddie.  She  has — I'm  engaged  to  her.  [Tak- 
ing Margaret's  hand.]  Margaret — my  Mar- 
garet  

[Telephone  bell  rings. 

Tremayne.      [Puzzled    and    savage.]      But    it 

was  Sybil  you  were  in  love  with 

[Telephone   bell   rings   violently. 

Freddie.  Do  let  me  answer  the  beastly  thing. 
It's  Algy.  [Going  to  telephone.]  Yes 
It's  Gaysford.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Tell  her 
it  was  only  a  joke.  I'm  engaged  to  Margaret  .  . 
I'm  sorry  she's  thrown  you  over.  .  .  .  Yes, 
of  course — it's  because  she  heard  the  Duke  was 
going  to  be  married. 

Margaret.      But   he   isn't — only   don't  say   so. 

Freddie.     Oh!     .      .      .      [To  Algy,  at  tele- 


THE   MODERN   WAY  529 

phone."]      Come  and  dine  at  the   Ritz 
good. 

[Freddie  drops  telephone  and  comes  forward, 

Tremayne.  You've  made  nice  fools  of  us  all 
round. 

M|is.  M.  Yes.  [Shaking  her  head.]  You 
have,  Freddie  dear. 

Freddie.  But  you've  all  been  splendid,  and 
I'm  in  the  seventh  heaven. 

[Tremayne  grunts. 

Mrs.  M.  [Purringly.]  And  not  a  fool's  para- 
dise? 

Freddie.  No.  [Puts  his  arm  on  Margaret's 
shoulder  and  looks  into  her  eyes,  and  takes  his 
mother's   hand.]      Not   a   fool's    paradise — in   the 

one  that  Margaret   has   made   for  me. 

\ 

Curtain. 


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NOV    5    1927 


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